The Sum of All Wisdom
by Mere24
Summary: Margaret finds Mr. Thornton after their confrontation at the exhibition allowing them to develop a tentative post-proposal friendship. Will their relationship be strong enough to overcome the heartache and deceit that is to come? Both book and mini-series based.
1. Prologue

A/N: This is my second North and South Story: _The Sum of All Wisdom._ This first chapter is a prologue and **merely a summation** of the 'Great Exhibition' Scene from the BBC adaptation. The first true chapter will be posted very shortly. This story will explore what would happen if Margaret finds Mr. Thornton after their confrontation at the exhibition allowing them to develop a tentative post-proposal friendship. If you enjoy my story, feedback would be appreciated!

The Sum of All Wisdom

"_the sum of all human wisdom will be contained in these two words: Wait and Hope." _

_Alexander Dumas – The Count of Monte Cristo_

Prologue

"... technologically, we are the envy of the world. If only there was a mechanism to enable us all to live together, to take advantage of the great benefits that comes from industry. But that will be for future generations."

Of all of the wonders that Margaret Hale had seen at the Great Exhibition, the most unexpected was certainly that of John Thornton. She looked upon him in awe, having never seen him so much in his element. He stood before both gentlemen and men in his trade, respected. The words that he spoke were so similar to the sentiments that she had heard argued in her father's study during their many discussions. Margaret felt a strange swell of pride and felt some unknown force drawing her to him.

"We can bring back marmosets from Mozambique but we cannot stop man from behaving as he always has," he continued.

"Don't you think that we can bring about an end to strikes?" One of the spectators questioned.

It was with a look of resignation that Mr. Thornton replied. "Not in my lifetime. But with time and patience, we may be able to bleed them of their bitterness." It was then that Mr. Thornton noticed her. His eyes burned into her with a sudden anger that caught Margaret completely off her guard.

Mr. Thornton had not removed his eyes from her, yet continued to address the businessmen that surrounded him. "Miss Hale here knows the depth we men in Milton have fallen to. How we masters only strive to grind our workers into the ground."

She and Mr. Thornton had no doubt had their differences, however she would never have thought that he would address them in such a public place. She wished to be anywhere but here and consciously fought the driving force within her that was urging her to flee. If her time in Milton had proven anything, it had shown that Margaret Hale was no coward.

"I certainly do not think that," she rebuffed him, and then addressed his listeners, "as Mr. Thornton could tell you, if he would know me at all."

Margaret began to walk away, unable to hear anything but the sound of her own heartbeat pounding within herself. She wanted to find somewhere to be alone, somewhere that she could forget the north and cotton and John Thornton all together. Margaret realized that there was little chance of finding such solace, as Mr. Thornton had abandoned his audience and was following her much more quickly than she herself was moving.

"I have presumed to know you once before," he said in a low voice which stopped her mid-stride, "and have been mistaken."

There was a pain in his tone that she knew herself to be the cause of, but she did not how to cure it without undue encouragement. Margaret could not allow her gaze to meet his and she was all too aware of his nearness. Her heart began to pound with twice the force that it had only a moment ago, she felt it most likely due to the public display that she found herself within. They stood in this manner for what seemed hours, Margaret was certain that he expected her to reply, but how could she? He had 'presumed to know her once before,' how? What possible indication could she have given him that would have both made him believe himself to know her, and believe that his addresses would be accepted?

'Miss Hale,' A shrill voice came chiming in from behind Mr. Thornton, his sister had the worst timing imaginable. "How delightful." She added in a tone that suggested that seeing Miss Hale was anything but.

Mr. Thornton glanced over his shoulder, allowing himself to see that in fact, both his sister and Anne Latimer were standing behind them. He turned back to Margaret, hoping that if he simply ignored them, that they would receive the message that they were not welcome in this conversation and leave both he and Miss Hale be.

"You have managed to come to London, at last." Margaret said, he could read the embarrassment in her dripping through her entire being. She had to admit that she was relieved to have the interruption, despite its awkwardness. Mr. Thornton kept his eyes trained on Miss Hale, in hopes that he could reengage her into continuing their conversation. He needed to speak to her. Simply standing this close to her made his heart soar and ache all at once.

"Mother agreed upon it only because John was coming." Fanny gestured to Miss Latimer, and with wide eyes added, "and Miss Latimer of course, who she approves of, greatly. Seems to think he's far more sensible than me." Fanny laughed as though she had not a care in the world, apparently oblivious to the tension standing right before her. Mr. Thornton wondered if Fanny could make her disapproval of Miss Hale any more apparent.

Mr. Thornton turned to face Margaret, composed himself, and thought to begin again. Perhaps she would agree to walk with him—"Henry!" the instant that the name left her lips every ounce of Mr. Thornton's composure was shaken. "Do you know Mr. Thornton." Thornton turned hesitantly to be faced with a very well dressed London gentleman. He immediately disliked this man.

Margaret was relieved that Henry had approached, as she felt heavily outnumbered. "Mr. Thornton, all the way from Milton." Henry's eyes darted to Margaret for a moment before settling upon Thornton, and with an overconfident smirk, he continued. "My brother is interested in dabbling in cotton."

Mr. Thornton squared his shoulders before he addressed Henry. "I'm not sure that I'm the one to speak to, I'm not sure that I would know how to dabble." Henry did not even attempt to stifle his laugh. Margaret was fairly certain that Mr. Thornton was speaking the truth on this point. She had never known him to put himself in any situation without full force. A 'bulldog,' she thought, remembering the laughter that she shared with Bessy over describing him thus. The humor had somehow lost itself in this moment.

"I must go, you may enjoy the machinery like an exhibit in a zoo, I have to go and live with it." Mr. Thornton turned from the small crowd. "I must get back to Milton today."

"Give my regard to the Hales." Henry's words stopped Mr. Thornton in his tracks. Henry's eyes were upon Margaret. "You must tell them how the London break is suiting Miss Hale." Mr. Thornton stared at Henry, who met him with a glare of his own. "Don't you think, Thornton? Doesn't Miss Hale look well?"

Mr. Thornton looked to the floor and then to Margaret, there it was, for one fleeting moment Margaret was faced with a mixture of pain and vulnerability that caused an unprecedented ache on the left side of her chest. Mr. Thornton seemed to shake it off as easily as it had come on, he turned once more to leave, "Good day," was all that he could trust himself to utter.

Margaret was thoroughly ashamed of Henry's intentional attempt at humiliation and turned to Mr. Thornton. "Tell mother I will be home soon," The word 'home' coming from Margaret's mouth stilled him, but he did not face her, he could not. "With so much to tell her." Mr. Thornton considered his options, but decided that nothing good would come from staying in this crowd, even if Margaret was among them. Without another word, he disappeared into the swarm, lost from sight within a matter of moments.

"John is such a stick in the mud." Fanny complained, she had certainly not intended on going back today, but she knew better than to argue with her brother when he was in one of his moods, it was a lost cause. Perhaps, she thought, he would allow her to travel back with the Latimers later in the week. Fanny decided to allow John time to cool off before addressing such a request.

"Who was that, anyone we should know?" Margaret's Aunt Shaw joined the party. Margaret felt mortification over Mr. Thornton's sister and friend hearing her aunt speak as such. Margaret loved her extended family, though wished that there was more to London society than simply who you know.

Mr. Latimer approached the party, having overheard most of the conversation. "Poor Thornton, I tempted him down here to try to raise finance for Marlborough Mills. He has had to face all kinds of inquiries." He focused his energies on Henry, who rolled his eyes, the insult unable to penetrate him. "Starry eyed Londoners, thinking that they only have to snap their fingers to make a fortune in cotton."

"I would have hardly thought that a manufacturer could appreciate a show like this." Henry's steel gaze never faltered under scrutiny.

"No you're wrong," Margaret's challenge caught Henry slightly off guard. "I have heard him talk often with my father, he is quite interested in the world." Her last words were accompanied by a set of piercing eyes. "Really, I know him to be."


	2. Chapter 1 - Beginnings

The Sum of All Wisdom

"_The sum of all human wisdom will be contained in these two words: Wait and Hope." _

_Alexander Dumas – The Count of Monte Cristo_

Chapter 1:

Beginnings

Margaret no longer wished to be in the presence of Henry or anyone else for that matter. What she had done to Mr. Thornton in rejecting him appeared to have caused him much more anguish than she could ever have expected. He had left, obviously pained, and not a soul was concerned enough to follow him. No, Fanny was concerned that his anger would shorten her trip, her aunt was wondering if he was of enough consequence to warrant her attention, Henry was congratulating himself on bettering a man that he had never before laid eyes upon and Anne, well, Margaret was completely unsure as to what she was thinking. As for Margaret, she certainly did not wish to see him hurt, but was fairly certain that following him would do more harm than good.

Walking briskly away, Margaret wanted nothing more than to forget the happenings of this dreadful morning. She was frustrated with the entire scene still in a state of disbelief that it had actually occurred. She was humiliated by what Mr. Thornton had said in front of all of those strangers, but Henry humiliated him right back, on a personal level no less, and with no cause. She was not entirely certain as to what had played between those two men and did not have the mental clarity at present to rationalize it.

Margaret walked alone, aimlessly through the Exhibition, soon finding herself back at the cotton manufacturing exhibits. Though she had recently toured the area, she found herself standing before an invention called a 'wheel' for the first time, this was something that she had not made note of while with her family and Henry. As she listened to a lecture on the benefits of housing a wheel in one's cotton mill Margaret could not help but to find herself saddened at the lack of interest in this particular exhibit. She assumed that the most likely reason for this state of indifference was in that the makers of this invention could not flaunt its incredible profitability, as most of those surrounding were able to do. Just behind here stood an actual working loom, which boasted to be safer and more self sufficient than those models currently available. One could not help but notice that the surrounding areas seemed so clean, quite the contrast from the sight that she had seen firsthand. There was no cotton waste floating all about them, no small children scurrying beneath the machine, no underfed, underpaid workers striving to keep a roof over their heads surrounding it. Though this process was certainly impressive, it did not paint a true picture of cotton manufacturing, at least not one that satisfied Margaret's mind.

Upon looking up, she was more than little surprised to see the broad expanse of Mr. Thornton's shoulders. Margaret's anxious heart skipped a beat and she thought that it would be most prudent to escape, as their last interaction could certainly not be considered a success by any stretch of the imagination. As she made up her mind to do just that, he turned unexpectedly and began to walk in her direction. Their eyes met and for a moment she was rendered motionless. There was an expression on his face which she could not define though it was gone in an instant and replaced with a definitive scowl. Before she could completely regain her bearings Mr. Thornton turned on his heel and began to walk in the opposite direction.

Weighing the options that lay before her, Margaret knew that she could not allow their chance encounter to end on such unpleasant grounds; it was plain to see that he thought very little of her at the moment. He was after all her father's dearest friend in Milton and Margaret did not want a lack of effort or humility on her part to affect her family in any negative light. Without thinking her plan through, she swiftly made her way through the crowd of people until she was in hearing distance.

"Mr. Thornton, wait, please." Margaret pleaded, he stopped, turning his ear toward her, she was still faced with a wall of black suiting, which had not so much as shifted. "Please, may I have a word?"

Mr. Thornton felt dejected. The last thing that he wished to do right now was to be faced with another humiliating meeting with Margaret Hale. He did not know who Henry was and wished with every fiber of his being that he did not care. One thing was clear to him: Miss Hale cared for this other man, this Henry. He was a fool.

Still facing away from her, Mr. Thornton spoke with every bit of bitterness that he felt. "I do not know what you could possibly have to say to me."

Margaret finally made her way to him, her breath coming quickly; she took a moment to compose herself before speaking. "I wish to say that I am sorry."

Mr. Thornton wished in that moment that she had not come, that she had never spoken, and more than anything he wished to God that he was not turning around to face to her. He willed himself to feel nothing more than indifference toward her. He was unsuccessful.

"Sorry for what?" Mr. Thornton asked her with a bitter laugh. He crossed his arms and waited for her rejoinder.

Margaret regretted her rash manners and not thinking through this approach before charging forth with her half-laid plan. His brow was every bit as stern as she had ever seen it, and for half of a moment she had an urge to smooth the lines with her finger. Ridding herself of that unwelcome thought, she weakly smiled at him before answering.

"Well," She wished that she could tell him that she was sorry for the hard feelings between them, but she knew the cause of said feelings and could not, no—would not—change it. "I am sorry for that mostly," Margaret gestured back to the empty space where they had earlier had their confrontation. "-and for Henry. He had no reason to speak to you in such a manner." They both stood silent, staring at one another for what was surely to be minutes on end.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Mr. Thornton attempted to summon the courage for what he needed to say. Upon opening them, they darted to the ground. "Miss Hale," He glanced back up at her for only a moment. "Do you think that we could ever put our, our _differences_ behind us, despite what has passed between us?" This was not the way that he had wished to present this question, he in fact did not know how to justly address this topic, but he was not satisfied with things as they stood. One thing that Mr. Thornton was certain of was that he would not apologize for the events that had transpired between them nor the feelings that he possessed, as he would not change them, despite the pain that they had caused.

The set of eyes that Margaret looked into held a kindness that she had never before seen. This was not the self-righteous Milton manufacturer that stood before her now. There was vulnerability in his question that she had never heard from him, not even during his ill-fated proposal.

Taking a deep breath Margaret decided to correct several of the wrongs that she had committed against him. Meeting his eyes, she began, "Perhaps." Tension visibally released from his shoulders, signaling Margaret that she could safely continue. "I think that," she faltered for a moment. "that we will never know unless we try."

Mr. Thornton nodded. It was a start.

Without conversing over their next actions or either party actually putting any thought to it, Mr. Thornton and Margaret began to walk. Their arms were not linked, neither touched the other in any way, they simply walked at a companionable pace near one another through the crowds of the Great Exhibition.

A gentleman soon approached and asked if Margaret's escort was indeed Mr. Thornton of Marlborough Mills. The man asked for a moment of the master's time.

Margaret was taken aback when Mr. Thornton asked her permission to conference with the gentleman. She of course assented and stepped away from the two men while they spoke of business matters. It did not slip Margaret's notice that he glanced up at her every so often, as if to ensure that she was still there. Though there was a level of awkwardness in her position; she felt as though they had much to talk through and if she was going to be a part of putting their differences behind them and therefore, the discomfort of waiting for Mr. Thornton to conduct his business was but a small sacrifice.

Mr. Thornton was able to give the man valuable information and was rightly flattered, but he could not keep his mind off of Margaret Hale. Never before had he allowed anything to distract him from work, things had somehow changed now, for Miss Hale had him fully and wholly distracted. Throughout the entirety of the conversation he was willing her not to leave, willing the conversation to conclude so that he could bask in her welcoming presence for just a few moments longer.

Once he finally returned to her side it was with a smile before they artlessly resumed their journey. "I am sorry about that." Mr. Thornton said soon after rejoining her. "Thank you for waiting."

"Of course." Margaret replied. They had not walked ten yards before they were approached once more, this time by a small group of men. It was when they asked to question Mr. Thornton that an errant thought caused Margaret to laugh.

"What do you find funny, Miss Hale?" Mr. Thornton asked somewhat self-consciously.

"Go and speak with your gentlemen. I will tell you when you return." Margaret replied with grin.

When the second interruption took place, Margaret remembered a conversation that she had held with his mother not so very long ago. She was determined to think of a tactful way to explain that, at the time, she felt his mother thought that he was much more important than he actually was. A revision seemed to be in the cards. She had always seen him as an incredibly proud man, but amongst men who were his equal or greater, he was quite humble, knowledgeable, and most surprising to Margaret, very much in demand. She had never known this side of him to exist, and was pleased to now know it.

The current interview had dragged on for nearly a quarter of an hour and drawn quite a crowd. As with the previous gentleman, not a minute went by that Mr. Thornton did not send an apologetic look her way, at which Margaret returned a patient smile. Feeling that it could be a bit of time before her companion was released, Margaret found a bench within eyeshot and watched from a much more convenient vantage. As soon as Mr. Thornton saw her sit, he felt like a very ungracious companion, offered the gentlemen a personal tour if they ever happened to be in Milton, and after exchanging contact information, politely excused himself.

"Miss Hale, you must forgive me." Mr. Thornton said, offering his hand to help her from her seated position. They continued down the main hall of the manufacturing exhibits.

"And you must stop apologizing." Margaret paused for a moment. She was hesitant to speak with him about business, but decided to forge ahead. "Mr. Latimer spoke of your coming to attain investors."

"Yes, that was my reason for this trip."

"Have you had any luck?" Margaret stopped walking to be certain that her question was welcome.

"Sadly I have not." Mr. Thornton was greeted by several men as they made their way through the crowds of people.

"You are certainly a very popular man, Mr. Thornton." Margaret said.

"I have a feeling that I would be much less popular if we were to make our way to the daguerreotypes or carriages or anywhere but here, actually. Would that be amenable to you, Miss Hale?" He slowed his step to gauge her reaction.

"Mr. Thornton, you are here on business, I am surely in your way-" He spoke before Margaret was able to finish her thought.

"Not at all." His manner was plaintive. "Please stay." Margaret gave a slight nod, and then looked over Mr. Thornton's shoulder to see a very well dressed gentleman approaching them. She had half a mind to grab Mr. Thornton by the arm and drag him to any other area of the exhibition. There was nothing pressing that she needed to say to him, but frustration was beginning to set in. Margaret decided that if this interaction was to be like the previous two, that she would stay nearer to the conversation if Mr. Thornton allowed, at least that way she may be somewhat diverted.

"Mr. Thornton, I presume?" Mr. Thornton turned at the sound of a voice behind him to find himself faced with a very young, very handsome gentleman.

"Yes, I am John Thornton. How may I help you?" Margaret was impressed by the instant change in Mr. Thornton's countenance. He did not seem affronted by her presence; in fact, he turned his shoulder out by a physical means of including her in the conversation.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Thornton, I am Lord Grey Goodwin of Hampshire. I have recently found myself very interested in the cotton industry, and have been directed to you as an expert in all that I may need to know." Lord Goodwin flashed a charming smile in both the direction of himself and Margaret, whom Mr. Thornton realized had chosen to stay nearby for _this_ visitor. After a swift appraisal, Mr. Thornton judged this man to be younger than himself, and if his dress, manners and title were of any measure, he was of significant consequence.

Margaret was silent as she observed the new gentleman who stood facing Mr. Thornton, their positions making for an easy comparison. Lord Goodwin was almost Mr. Thornton's height, not as broad, but still powerfully built. Instead of dark locks, he had a head of sandy light brown waves and a deeply tanned face with bright green eyes. Just for added measure, he had an engaging smile and easy manner that seemed to put her instantly at ease. There was a smattering of freckles across his nose, giving him a boyish appearance. She could not guess at his age. He looked older than Henry, but younger than Mr. Thornton, though that could easily be attributed to his light-hearted manner.

The two men spoke of the cotton trade in Milton for a short time, Lord Goodwin seemed to take a special interest in the recent strike and its effect on the Mill's profitability. There was a lull in the conversation which somehow steered his attention to Margaret; she had not contributed to the discussion, though found herself very interested. The gentleman was gregarious and seemed to be genuinely interested in Marlborough Mills, and though she could not say for certain, Margaret would venture to guess that he had a significant amount of money just waiting to be invested.

"Ah, and this must be Mrs. Thornton." Lord Goodwin said with a bow in Margaret's direction. Margaret's eyes met Mr. Thornton's. His skin took on a pallor that caused a sinking feeling to take up residence within her. She could not read the look that replaced the near pleasantness that had filled his features before Lord Goodwin spoke his ill-placed, albeit innocent words. Not knowing how to respond herself, Margaret waited for Mr. Thornton to respond, though once the silence became more uncomfortable than the question that had preceded it, Margaret saw little other option than to speak.

"No sir, I am—My name is Margaret Hale. I also live in Milton." Margaret did not know how to respond to such a comment, but her reply would have to do as it was clear that Mr. Thornton was not intending on making one himself.

"How surprising, I mistook you for a Londoner. You certainly do not sound as though you are from the north." Lord Goodwin added, despite the palpable tension that lay before him, he remained all ease.

"You are mostly correct in that assumption, Lord Goodwin, I have not lived in Milton long. I was raised between London and Helstone, which is in the New Forest." Margaret smiled at Mr. Thornton who seemed to become more comfortable with the conversation once again.

Lord Goodwin took a step closer to Margaret. "I see, and the cotton industry interests you, Miss Hale?" He looked at her as though he sincerely doubted that she could take an interest in something as odious as trade. "I would think that business would offend your sweet, southern sensibilities."

Margaret laughed, thinking that many aspects of manufacturing did indeed offend her sensibilities greatly. "I have learned quite a bit in my short time in Milton. I assure you sir, I _am_ interested in the industry, in the social aspect of it at least."

"The social aspect?" Lord Goodwin turned his full attention on the lovely lady who had succeeded in capturing it.

Margaret turned to Mr. Thornton before speaking, not knowing how he would take what she was planning to express. "I am interested in the conditions of the workers." She glanced down for a moment. "I had a close friend who recently died of brown lung. I think that if the mill owners and masters gave more care to the workers conditions, her senseless death could have been avoided."

Mr. Thornton rose to the challenge in her words. Fully facing her, he asked, "What would you have had us do, Miss Hale?"

Margaret wished that she had worded that just a little more tactfully. Unable to face Mr. Thornton in his ire, she turned her attention back toward Lord Goodwin. "I seem to have somewhat misspoken. I must excuse Mr. Thornton and possibly a handful of other masters from the general statement that I have just made. Mr. Thornton has installed a wheel in all of his buildings. I do not fully understand these machines, but I am told that they help to keep the cotton out of the air and off of the worker's lungs. In fact, when Bessy's condition was discovered, Nicholas, her father, requested to have her placed at Marlborough Mills." Margaret turned back toward Mr. Thornton. "I only wish that all of the mill owners would have taken such precautions."

"I see that you _do _take an interest, Miss Hale." Lord Goodwin said with an air of admiration.

"You must allow me to clarify some of what Miss Hale has said in my defense, Lord Goodwin. I have indeed installed wheels in all of my buildings, where it is in my worker's best interest to do so, I must admit that my motives were primarily focused on the profitability of my mill in doing so." Mr. Thornton said. He would not be thought of as a philanthropist, he had worked too hard to bring himself into the ranks of respected businessmen.

It was Margaret's turn for her temper to get the better f her. "Mr. Thornton, certainly profit would not have been your first interest in such a matter."

"Profit must always be my chief concern, Miss Hale, otherwise my mill will not succeed." Mr. Thornton countered, there was no anger, and actually little challenge in his words, he simply wished to make Margaret understand him.

"I have learned, just today in fact, that there is little profit to be made by installing the wheels, sir. They are, in fact, quite expensive. How could profitability have been your chief concern?" Margaret asked.

"That is quite simple. My investment in the wheels will be profitable in the long run. My workers will be healthier, they will work for me longer, their children will work for me longer. I will lose less time and money on training new hands to work the machines and have a set of highly skilled, healthy workers." Mr. Thornton knew that they were expressing similar points, but he wished that Margaret could see why he looked at things the way that he did.

"Then you do find yourself concerned with the health of the workers," She felt exasperated, it seemed as though they were talking in circles, nearly saying the same things, but he simply seemed averse to understanding her. "or are you saying that you simply see these poor men, women and children as means to making your fortune?" Margaret reddened.

"No, Miss Hale, you misunderstand me. I must care for their wellbeing, which is why I keep wheels in my shed." His eyes pleaded for understanding. "If I do not keep an eye on my bottom line, then my mill may sink. What would become of your poor men, women and children if I had no mill in which to employ them."

"I suppose that I can respect that." Margaret conceded. "I do, however, sorely disagree with profit being your first priority." She was unwilling to relinquish her stance entirely.

"I understand your concerns, but the wellbeing of the mill is paramount." His calm authoritative voice made it difficult for Margaret to keep her end of the argument going.

"You have admitted that the workers wellbeing is a concern, perhaps if you let them know of your sentiments, if you were to talk with them," She sighed, wishing that she could put her thoughts into proper words, wishing that he could see this as she did. "Perhaps, Mr. Thornton, if you would make the effort to allow your men to know that their concerns are heard, maybe you could bridge this great chasm that has developed between Masters and men." She could see that he desired for her to understand his point of view as badly as she wished for him to see hers. Margaret sighed and hearty laughter caused both Margaret and Mr. Thornton to turn toward Lord Goodwin. Both parties were somewhat embarrassed that they had allowed their differences to overweigh his very presence.

"This has been a very enlightening conversation. I would stake my name on the fact that if the two of you ran a mill together, it would be the most successful in the empire." Lord Goodwin glanced between the pair before him. "You both have such a unique and quite opposite, if I may, way of approaching the wellbeing of Marlborough mills. Mr. Thornton, you could run the business side, and Miss Hale could add a, what say you, a humanitarian element."

Lord Goodwin then stepped away from Margaret and Mr. Thornton, spreading his hands wide and looking about the crowds walking past. "Look at all of these people just going on with their lives at large; not one realizing the opportunity that they are just passing by. Do you not see?" He spoke much louder than necessary and with a gaiety of which both in his presence were unaccustomed, though garnering little attention from the crowd that slowly made its way around the three. "_We_ have found the solution these disastrous strikes, the thorn in this otherwise prosperous venture." Margaret laughed nervously, causing Mr. Thornton to focus his attention on her for a brief moment before turning back to Lord Goodwin.

"Excuse me?" Mr. Thornton was not certain if this man was serious or simply in jest. Reading the motives of those around him had never been one of his strong suits.

"Mr. Thornton, I am going to give you my information and I do hope that you will not disappoint. I am looking to invest in a _novel_ and of course profitable form of the industry and what I have heard between the two of you interests me a great deal. Let us keep in correspondence and if you ever do take on some of Miss Hale's ideals, well, Marlborough Mills may be just the venture that I am looking for." Mr. Thornton did not completely understand what had just taken place, but he was in dire need of an investor and therefore would not completely dismiss Lord Goodwin, no matter how ridiculous his ideas may seem at present.

"I will be certain to keep you up to date with any improvements." Mr. Thornton said. "I would like to assure you that an investment in Marlborough Mills is one that you would not come to regret."

Lord Goodwin turned his full attention to Mr. Thornton. "I can see that you are a good businessman, Mr. Thornton. I look forward to hearing more from you." With a respectful nod, Lord Goodwin wasted little time in addressing Margaret. "It was an extreme pleasure to meet you as well, Miss Hale." He lifted her hand and kissed it. "I do hope that it is pleasure that will soon be repeated." Margaret could not keep the blush from her cheeks.

"It has been a pleasure on my side as well." It had not gone beyond notice that Lord Goodwin had yet to release her hand.

"Mr. Thornton, you would be wise not to let this one get away, she is jewel." Mr. Thornton felt his chest tighten at Goodwin's causal remark.

"Quite. Good Day, sir."

Mr. Thornton and Margaret watched Lord Goodwin walk away. An overwhelming sense of embarrassment flooded Margaret. She was ashamed that she had argued with Mr. Thornton in front of a prospective investor, not to mention, frustrated with herself for always allowing her emotions to get the better of her in his presence. No one else seemed to have such an effect on her. She felt that his view of the world was not as it should be, and had some inexplicable need to make him understand her point of view. Mr. Thornton, on the other hand, found his strongest emotion coming out of the conference to be that of jealousy. He was near certain that nothing serious would come from Lord Goodwin's interests, which meant that the only thing that he had accomplished this afternoon was to infuriate Miss Hale. It truly frustrated him that a man that she had never laid eyes on before could approach her, and within half an hour's time have as good of a rapport, if not better, than he.

The pair began to walk once more, and were very soon out of the manufacturing areas of the exhibition. There was a tension between them that both thought on how to breach but neither tried for some time.

"I saw that you were here with The Latimers." Margaret finally broke the silence. "We have met on a few occasions, but I do not know them well. I have come with my Aunt Shaw and the Lennoxes." They were strolling around the exhibits taking note of nothing in particular

"Yes, the Latimers and Fanny. Who are the Lennoxes?" Margaret had met Anne Latimer several times, each occasion predominated by the feeling that she was being weighed and measured.

"How nice, Miss Thornton had spoken to Mama and me about wishing to visit London, I am happy for her." Margaret paused for a moment. "As for The Lennoxes, my cousin Edith, who is very much like a sister to me, is my Aunt Shaw's daughter. Aunt Shaw is Mama's sister and Captain Lennox is her husband- Edith's husband, not Aunt Shaw's." She laughed at the implication. "Oh, and Henry, who you met earlier, is Captain Lennox's brother." Mr. Thornton's lips tightened.

"I see." Was the only reply that Margaret was afforded.

"You return today?" Margaret asked.

"I am not in any hurry to leave," He was looking intently at her then realized that he had earlier told her of his plans to leave immediately. "What I meant to say was that I plan to leave today or tomorrow most likely. I have come on the advice of Mr. Latimer to try and secure investors for the mill and have had little luck. How about yourself? Do you travel back with the Lennoxes?" Margaret thought that he seemed very interested in the people that she was with.

"I am not sure, but certainly not long, mother is not well as you know. She asked me to come." Margaret lowered her head as they stopped.

"I am sorry, if there is anything that I can do, do not hesitate to ask me, please." She glanced up, meeting his eyes for only a moment as his stare was too intense to hold.

"I was supposed to thank you for the grapes. I am sorry that I did not, it was wrong of me." She did not know what made her say it, but in that moment, she was compelled to do so.

"Well, you are thanking me now, and you are most welcome. I was pleased to do what little I could for her." They continued walking with no particular destination in sight. The silence had somehow become more comfortable, she felt his company much easier than she ever had before. Perhaps they would spar much less if they only met on neutral ground.

"It serves us well to have a friend such as you." Margaret forced a boldness that she did not know herself to possess at the moment and tried to meet his eyes once more.

Mr. Thornton smiled and glanced down at her while keeping pace. "It does me well to have friends in your family as well." He paused in both word and step. "May I venture to call you a friend, then?"

"Only if I may do the same." Margaret replied and was gifted a smile, the likes of such she had never before seen. They continued strolling through the exhibits, she was pleased that they were finally, for once, thinking in the same vein.

"Who is accompanying you home?" Mr. Thornton asked this question once more hoping to receive and answer.

"I traveled here alone, as Dixon was required by my mother. I suppose that Henry will take me back if Aunt Shaw insists, but it is not necessary." She felt guilty having mentioned Henry again, but felt it necessary as she did not wish to encourage him, and it _was_ the truth.

"Alone? If you travel back soon, I will be happy to accompany you, I could wait a day or so." He then added hastily, "The Latimers will leave on Friday, I will speak to them if you wish. I am certain that it will be no trouble." Margaret felt sure that his offer would have pleased her father greatly, as he did not wish for her to travel alone. Aunt Shaw had enlisted Henry to accompany her, which she thought a ridiculous notion, as he would have to turn right back around once they reached Milton. Margaret did not think that she would be particularly comfortable with either man as a traveling companion.

"Thank you, Mr. Thornton. Your offer is very kind though I do not think that it will be necessary." She suddenly felt warm under his stare. Margaret turned signaling that they should continue walking. "I was watching the process of cotton earlier." Margaret spoke faster than was her wont. "I have lived in Milton for a while now, and did not realize how much went into what you do. It is quite impressive." The change of subject was not lost on Mr. Thornton.

"Miss Hale, as your father's friend, I feel compelled to insist that _someone_ accompany you home, but I will speak no more of it if you wish." He sighed. "I cannot deny that the machinery is impressive, but it is something that I see every day. I have to say that I am much more impressed by the art brought in from all over the world. There are things here that one could never expect to see without extensive traveling." He eyed Margaret, not quite believing that she was walking alongside him. "What have you enjoyed, Miss Hale?"

"There is so much to see, I could hardly choose a favorite." After strolling a moment in thought, she turned to Mr. Thornton. "I think that I am most impressed with the Crystal Palace itself. The way that they have transformed the Hyde Park is nothing less than extraordinary." She looked up, gesturing toward the clear ceiling.

"Have you been to this park?" Mr. Thornton asked.

"Oh, many times. Harley street is not a far drive from here, I have some wonderful memories of this park as a girl." She sighed at the memories of a childhood with fewer worries.

"Do you miss it?" He asked with a bit of solemnity in his tone.

"I do. I think that more than anything, I miss what I was here, life was easier. I knew no suffering as I do now." She realized that they had stopped walking, and looked at him. "I have had to grow up rather quickly in Milton. I have had to face things that I was not been prepared for." She wrapped both arms around her middle, as if preparing herself for the words to come. "I have told you about my friend Bessy?"

"Yes, I am so sorry." Mr. Thornton knew that those words would not be enough, but they were all that he could find to say.

"She was my only true friend in Milton." They stood in silence for some time. He wished that he had the proper words to deliver, he wished that he could have been there—that she would have given him that honor. Mr. Thornton finally attempted to walk, but he was suddenly stayed by Margaret's hand. "My mother is dying, Mr. Thornton." She looked back down and with a deep breath said, "Father refuses to believe it. I worry so for him." Margaret did not know why she confessed this to him, perhaps it was too much for one person to hold in, or it may have been that she was fairly certain that he already knew.

"And what of you, Miss Hale?" He wished to reach forward and place a hand on her shoulder but he felt that even in this situation, it was too intimate a gesture for their frail relationship to handle.

She was beautiful, vulnerable; her eyes glistened as she spoke. "I can bear it better than he can."

Before he could make a motion or even offer a word of comfort, Margaret's eyes widened and focused somewhere beyond him. She quickly patted below her eyes and forced a smile that was anything but genuine. Mr. Thornton was certain that they were no longer alone. He did not turn to face the unwelcome party, though he could feel their presence. His only concern lay before him.

"Oh, Margaret, is everything alright?" Edith was by her cousin's side in an instant. She then turned to Mr. Thornton who now had no choice but to acknowledge the very familiar young lady and two gentlemen that somehow managed to both create and fill a chasm between him and Margaret. Edith seemed to be studying him as though to ascertain the extent of their relationship through her limited powers of keen observation. She appeared unhappy with her findings, which were no more than the fact that she highly disapproved of any man in Margaret's company who was not Henry Lennox.

"I am fine, Edith, might I introduce my friend, John Thornton." Margaret stepped closer to Mr. Thornton as she made the introduction. "Mr. Thornton, this is Edith, Captain Lennox, and you have met Henry." She regretted saying it as such the moment that it left her mouth. Both men seemed to glower at one another for one severe moment that was not lost on any present.

"It is a pleasure to meet you all." Mr. Thornton said to the group at large.

Captain Lennox was the first to extend a greeting, which was seconded by his wife. Henry kept his greeting and reminded Margaret that they had a dinner engagement and should not keep her aunt waiting.

Margaret wiped her hands beneath her eyes once more, relieved to find that her tears had not fallen. "You are quite right, time must have slipped away from me." She turned back to Mr. Thornton, unsure as to how the day had taken such a turn. Margaret was grateful for Mr. Thornton, grateful for this strange day, grateful for the relief that sharing her grief had created. "I will be back in Milton by Friday, can I expect to see you at lessons with Father?"

"I would like that." He responded.

"Thank you, Mr. Thornton." Margaret said and took her leave of him joining the company of the Lennoxes. John Thornton stood in the common grounds of the Crystal Palace as he watched her walk away, shrouded in disbelief of the hour that they had shared.


	3. Chapter 2 - Promise

_A/N: Merry late Christmas to all of you! Please consider leaving a review to let me know what you think. If anyone would like to be a beta for this story, please let me know. I have never formally had a beta before, but another set of eyes is always helpful. _

The Sum of All Wisdom

"_The sum of all human wisdom will be contained in these two words: Wait and Hope." _

_Alexander Dumas – The Count of Monte Cristo_

**Chapter 2 - Promise**

Relived to finally have the passenger cart to herself, Margaret found that she was able to relax at last. The first leg of her trip was all too crowded. It was during that time that, for the first time since she had made the decision to travel alone, that she regretted it. Now that those around her had left, Margaret once more took comfort in her independence.

A twinge of guilt began to permeate her mind as she thought of the trouble that she had undergone to make this unconventional journey. Leaning her head against the cushion, she closed her eyes and remembered the chaos that this past week had held on Harley Street.

Monday evening looked to be an early one for the London set. The Lennoxes, Aunt Shaw and Margaret spent the majority of dinner speaking of the exhibition as well as discussing their plans to return to see more of it over the following days. When the party retired to the drawing room, Margaret found herself in a chair very near Henry. She had yet to forgive him for his behavior toward Mr. Thornton earlier that afternoon, but remained in civil conversation with him all the same.

A footman entered the drawing room with a letter for Mrs. Shaw. After taking some time to read the short missive, Margaret's aunt addressed her in a way that ensured that she had the audience of all who were present.

"Margaret, I have just received a letter from that tradesman that we met today at the exhibition." Margaret was discomfited by her aunt's heavy handed insult toward a man who was not even present. "He wanted to let you know that if you needed an escort back to Milton, that he would like to offer his services." The look that her aunt shared Edith was not missed by Margaret. "It seems that if you wish to leave by Wednesday morning he will make himself available, though he cannot stay beyond that point." Margaret smiled at the generosity of Mr. Thornton, knowing that he would only delay his trip to Wednesday to accommodate her. Mrs. Shaw continued. "He also goes forth to say that if you wish to leave on Friday that his friends would be happy to escort you home." Aunt Shaw aimed yet another pointed glance at her daughter. "He adds that he has entrusted his sister's wellbeing to their care and that I should not be worried to release you to them." Mrs. Shaw tossed the letter aside with a disdainful snort.

"That is very kind of Mr. Thornton." Margaret responded, attempting to conceal the blush that she developed due, she was certain, to the close scrutiny of those around her.

"You cannot seriously be considering traveling with that man unaccompanied can you?" Edith spoke, looking at Margaret as though she had just said the most ludicrous idea ever imagined. "Why that would be," Edith paused as if attempting to find just the right words, "why, Margaret, that would be simply indecent!"

Unable to control the slight laugh that escaped unbidden, Margaret attempted to reason with the unreasonable. "It would be no more indecent than my traveling alone with Henry." She offered him a smile that indicated that no ill will was meant to be read into her words. "Which I have said that I will not be doing, as the notion of your spending all day on a train would be ridiculous." Margaret had no particular wish to travel alone with either man, but at least Mr. Thornton would not be going out of his way to escort her.

Henry smiled at Margaret, he was determined not to let some manufacturer get the better of him on this accord. "It would be no trouble, Margaret. I assure you that it would be my most distinct pleasure." The tone of his voice made Margaret feel ill at ease.

"Thank you for the generous offer, Henry, but I am afraid that I cannot accept." Margaret did not like to be placed in this situation; this was but the first time that she had even seen Henry after his visit to Helstone, and she was not prepared to spend hours with him in solitude.

"Margaret, you must see reason." Edith came to her cousin, gracefully lowering herself to the ottoman near Margaret's feet. "You are under our care, and it is our will, nay, our duty to see you home safely."

Unable to keep a smile from her face, she made an attempt to see hear her cousin out. It was not news to Margaret that nothing would please Edith more than for her to spend time with, travel with, and to ultimately marry Henry Lennox, though perhaps not in that particular order. "You are a dear, Edith. I can assure you that I would be perfectly safe traveling with either the Latimers or Mr. Thornton."

"But Margaret!" Edith pouted. "I insist that you ride home with Henry, or, or, well, you shall simply have to ride home alone." Edith crossed her arms and looked about the room with an air of satisfaction. Having lived with Edith for nearly a decade, Margaret knew well how to handle her.

"Very well, Edith, if you insist." Both Edith and Henry turned toward her. "I will leave Thursday, and I shall travel alone, it has been settled, and I will brook no further arguments on the subject."

Margaret could not help but laugh thinking back upon the remainder of the week. Simply because she had said that she would take no further arguments certainly did not keep Edith, Aunt Shaw and even Henry from making them. Alas, it was Thursday and Margaret's plan had prevailed.

As the train pulled into Outwood station, Margaret was thankful that the sun had yet to set. She had walked these streets many times, yet felt much more comfortable with some light to lead her way. Anxious to get home, eager to see her mother well, she could hardly wait to tell her of the wonders that she had been fortunate enough to see.

Not wishing to disturb Dixon, as she may have been needed by her mother, Margaret let herself in the house. She removed her coat, placed her bag by the door and glanced at her reflection in the mirror, an action which she immediately regretted, as she proved to be much worse for wear than she had anticipated. "Mother, Father, I am home," Margaret said in raised tones while attempting to straighten her crooked bonnet and her errant mane. "It was wonderful, I cannot wait to tell you all about it." Finding her task fruitless, she removed her bonnet decided that a bath would do her a world of good.

"You will never guess who I ran into." Margaret all but yelled up the stairs as she began to climb them. "Mr. Thornton of all people, all the way in London. We actually got on rather well, if you will believe it. He and his sister were there, we just happened upon them when-" she stopped suddenly as she turned into her father's study. Her breath was drawn from her when she saw the very man whose name had just been on her lips sitting across from her father looking at her with a welcoming smile.

"Miss Hale, it is good to see you again." Mr. Thornton said as he stood to greet her. Margaret quickly thought over the words that she had practically shouted through the Hale home in an attempt to both calm herself and gauge the level of mortification that she should feel in that moment.

Attempting to repress the overwhelming sense of discomfiture, she put her hand out, which he quickly took. "How unexpected to see you again so soon." Margaret added hastily.

"Why should it be unexpected, Margaret? This is Mr. Thornton's usual day of study." Her father's voice refocused Margaret's scattered thoughts.

After pulling her hand back, she offered some semblance of a smile, hesitated as though to say something, then with a shake of her head, quickly turned away from their guest to kneel by her father's side. "I have missed you, Papa." Mr. Thornton was warmed by the smile that was shared between father and daughter. "Is there anything that I can get for you?" Margaret asked.

"Having you home does me a world of good, child." Margaret answered with a kiss. Mr. Thornton was amazed at the easy love that she and her father possessed. They shared a form of silent devotion that he could feel yet not penetrate. Even upon his initial visits to the Hale home, he remembered finding comfort in his time at the Hale's home. Soon he came to value this room as a refuge, one which held all of his hope for a future that he had never before imagined. If he were to examine his heart in that moment, he could not have deciphered what he felt, he simply found himself ever trapped somewhere between desire and desperation. If the events of this past week had offered anything to him, it was the knowledge of where he stood in relation to Margaret. The friendship that was offered to him appeared to be genuine, and though far from what he yearned for, had a much less bitter taste than his alternative.

"How is mother?" Margaret asked, drawing Mr. Thornton from his thoughts, having wondered the same thing from the moment that he had arrived.

"Not well, I fear." Mr. Hale's words came as a blow. Margaret had to steady herself from the shock of the gravity in her father's voice. Before her trip, he had yet to admit that her mother was so much as ill. She allowed her eyes to meet Mr. Thornton's for a shared moment of clear understanding.

"I should go to her." Mr. Thornton watched as Margaret walked to the door, she paused once more as though she would say something more but continued on her way in silence.

As he sat staring at an empty threshold, Mr. Thornton could not help but wonder how she had arrived. He presumed that had Lennox accompanied her that he would be here at this very moment. As that was not the case, he took some solace in knowing that despite declining his offer for accompaniment, she must have declined Lennox's as well.

The sun had long since set and the lesson was for all intents and purposes over, however, Mr. Thornton was reluctant to return to Marlborough Mills. His disinclination to leave was due to a much different reason, a much different Hale, in fact, than he would have thought himself to have earlier in the day. The morning had passed slowly with no small amount of anticipation on his part. When Margaret had returned his note in London, she had indicated that she would be returning this evening, his normal day of study with her father. There was a longing that he could not deny, a need to not only be in Margaret's presence but to know how he would be received. As the evening progressed Mr. Thornton was coming to find that there was a need stronger than his own in this household.

"Mr. Hale, I should go. I feel that you may need to spend time with your family, as your daughter has just returned." Soon after Margaret had made her way into her mother's room, Mr. Thornton thought it prudent to take his leave.

"Oh, no John, please do not feel the need to leave." Mr. Hale said all too quickly. "If you have things that you need to tend to at home, I understand full well, but please do not leave on our account."

Mr. Thornton was more than pleased to stay, though the strain that he saw in his dear friend's eyes was disconcerting. It was settled that he would stay, and the two fell into an easy discussion on the new machinery as well as other inventions which were featured at the exhibition. Mr. Thornton quickly found that the topic did not matter, so long as it was far removed from the sadness that permeated the walls of the little Crampton house. Neither could have given an accurate account of the passage of time when they were interrupted by a knock at the door.

"I am sorry for the intrusion." Margaret said as she entered the room to a warm welcome. Exhaustion had long since settled in, however rest would not find her so soon after such a trying visit with her mother. "I do not wish to keep you, Mr. Thornton, but I am quite in need of refreshment, if you are staying, I will have a kettle put on that will satisfy all of us."

"I would enjoy that, Miss Hale." She nodded to both her father and Mr. Thornton before making her way below stairs. The preparation was up to her alone, as Dixon had taken vigil by her sleeping mother's bed; it hardly mattered, since the move to Milton, Margaret had found herself to be no stranger to the kitchen. After stoking the fire she filled the large copper kettle and with much effort, placed it directly over the flames. After a few moments of rummaging, she was able to find a partial loaf of bread and jam and started to work, happy to have herself distracted by so menial a task. By the time the kettle began to whistle Margaret was satisfied with the offerings that she had prepared.

As she was not accustomed to carrying a full tea tray upstairs, Margaret had to be incredibly cautious with her footing. The clock was good enough to wait until both feet were situated firmly on the landing before announcing that it was midnight. As she counted the chimes, she felt ashamed that she had suggested Mr. Thornton stay without taking note of the hour. With such an offer, she thought that he may have felt that it would be indecorous to decline. There was nothing to be done for it now.

As she made her way back into the company of men, Margaret rested the tray upon its usual table and began to quickly prepare the tea despite being certain that it had yet to have ample opportunity to steep. She brought Mr. Thornton's tea to him first; her father's was not far behind.

"How did you find your mother." Mr. Hale finally asked as Margaret was taking her seat.

Margaret looked between Mr. Thornton and her father. "She is sleeping now, Papa. Dixon is with her." She did not wish to tell him that her mother did not recognize her for some time, that when she finally did, she only cried out about not seeing Frederick once more before she leaves this earth. She did not know how to tell her father how his wife lamented ever coming to this God-forsaken place and where she placed the blame. No, Margaret would share none of that. Her one small consolation lay in knowing that Fred could now have received her letter. The silence that surrounded them was not unwelcome, as all preferred to enjoy what Margaret had prepared for them rather than to share the thoughts that swam unspoken through the room.

"Papa, you would not believe the expanse of the crystal palace, am I right Mr. Thornton?" Margaret forced a smile and a lighter topic.

"It was impressive." Mr. Thornton agreed.

"It was so grand that when you entered you could not see from one end to the other. It was built around many of the trees that were already standing, so it was as if we were taking a stroll through Hyde Park while having the opportunity to see the best from all over the world." Margaret added. She too felt the need to absorb herself in another subject at the moment.

"If it was so large, I am surprised that you found one another." Mr. Hale remarked. He had only visited Hyde Park once, though if his memory served him properly it was a vast expanse of land.

Mr. Thornton looked toward Margaret, he had thought the same thing many times over the past few days. It seemed almost providential that they met one another as they had. He vividly recalled the initial thrill at her sight, a feeling which took no time in becoming complete resentment.

"Captain Lennox wished to learn more about the cotton industry; they had full working cotton looms. We happened upon Mr. Thornton there speaking to a number of gentlemen interested in the process." Margaret finished weakly and did not turn to Mr. Thornton, as her mind traveled, unbidden, to the events that followed.

"I am glad to know that Lennoxes had an opportunity to meet you, John. No doubt those young men were impressed that we had made connections with such an important man in cotton." Mr. Hale was certainly proud of his connection to Marlborough Mills.

"I do not know that your London relations have the same taste for manufacturers as you do, Mr. Hale." Margaret blushed furiously thinking of the interaction that had occurred between Mr. Thornton and herself, soon followed by the altercation that occurred between Mr. Thornton and Henry. Slowly allowed her eyes to meet Mr. Thornton's, Margaret was caught somewhat off guard to be met with a slight smile and raised eyebrow. She realized in that instant that she had been forgiven for those wrongdoings.

"I am sorry to hear that, John. There is no accounting for taste, I suppose. Is that not right, Margaret?" Richard Hale said, hoping that his daughter would answer favorably, though admittedly he had learned not to expect anything complimentary where Milton, manufacturing or John Thornton were concerned.

"None at all." She offered a smile to their guest. "Mr. Thornton did draw quite a crowd, Papa. There was a point where we walked for nearly three quarters of an hour and hardly shared a word!" Margaret said laughing.

"In all fairness, I believe that I offered to leave the area." Mr. Thornton said in defense of himself.

"And what good would that have done us? The way that things were going, I was certain that had we ventured to the daguerreotypes, we would have found that Mr. Brady had heard of your popularity and had a piece featuring Marlborough Mills." Margaret said with mischief in her voice.

"I am fairly certain that once we left the cotton manufacturing portion of The Exhibition, that I was no longer in demand." Mr. Thornton said plainly. Mr. Hale was enjoying the scene that played before him. He thought that perhaps a change in scenery might have done them both a world of good.

"Prehaps you are right," Margaret said standing to take their guest's now empty cup. As she quietly prepared his tea as she knew him to take it, Margaret caught Mr. Thornton looking at her in a rather unabashed manner, to her great surprise she did not seem mind the scrutiny that she found herself under in the moment. Handing his tea cup back, she added, "though I do not remember passing the daguerreotypes." Mr. Thornton emitted what could have been a laugh, had it been given an opportunity to mature. Margaret turned to her father. "Might I refresh you as well, Papa?"

He agreed, but only if they would continue their tales from the exhibition. He wished to know what the London party found of interest.

Watching Margaret return to her seat, Mr. Thornton wondered at the interaction that they had just shared. It had been simple enough, yet he had never known its likeness. He knew what she wanted from him, and he was willing to give it. He could not stop himself from loving her, nor would he if he could. Now before him lay the great endeavor of not reading more into their every interaction. Watching her long taper finger trace the mouth of her tea cup, he was almost certain that he was unequal to the task.

"Edith went on for a good while about the Elephant. There was a live elephant there, it was donated by an Indian prince, I must say that it _was_ quite impressive. It was used as a conveyance with a," she stopped for a moment to collect her thoughts. "-carriage of sorts, on its back." Margaret thought for a moment more. Edith's favorite was easy, as she continually went back and forth on whether it would be lovely or disgraceful to ride upon an elephant, the memory caused Margaret's mouth to turn upward.

"Captain Lennox was very interested in Mr. Colt's firearms from the Americas." Margaret said. She turned back to Mr. Thornton. "He also enjoyed the cotton manufacturing. We toured that area once more yesterday."

"I am glad to hear it." Mr. Thornton said.

"What did your Aunt and Henry Lennox enjoy?" Her father asked.

"Aunt Shaw was most impressed with the French statuary. They were beautiful. I could not imagine having the talent to make something so massive while staying true to life." Margaret remarked.

"I think that your drawings are most impressive, my dear." He smiled at his daughter.

"You could hardly compare my little sketches to great art, Father." Margaret blushed.

"I did not know that you drew, Miss Hale." Margaret was in no mood to make a show of her talents, especially so late in the evening.

"I do." She said in a manner that did not allow furtherance of the exchange. There was a lull in the conversation, and Margaret was certain that the evening was on the brink of its end when her father spoke once more.

"And Henry? What did Henry Lennox enjoy?" Mr. Hale asked. He pressed Margaret in order to expand the conversation and keep his mind occupied. Mr. Thornton was stopped mid sip by the question. He set his cup down and gave Margaret his full attention.

"Henry was agreeable to most anything that I wished to see." The ease that she felt earlier had vanished and Margaret suddenly felt nervous under Mr. Thornton's intense scrutiny. "He was particularly interested in spending time before the stained glass. Did you see the stained glass, Mr. Thornton?"

"I did not." She attempted to steer the conversation away from the island of discomfiture that it was on the verge of landing upon.

"There was a beautiful stained glass gallery, and to allow us to properly see it, each piece was surrounded by rich black draperies."

"The room was completely dark?" Mr. Thornton asked with a mask of nonchalance.

"Yes, well no. There were lights behind the glass causing us to be covered in bright colors. I feel that you could have stayed in that particular area for a very long time, as each piece was so detailed. Often one small section told a story, but if you took a step back, you would see that it was only a smaller portion of a much larger picture." Margaret felt that this was perhaps her favorite exhibit, and more than once on the two trips to that area, had she wished that she had been allowed to bring her sketchbook and drawing pencils. She thought that perhaps she could attempt to draw one or two of them from memory, though doubted that the product would do the original justice.

"Mr. Lennox is interested in art, then?" Mr. Thornton asked, pulling Margaret from her mental effusions.

"He is." Margaret replied. "London Gentlemen often pride themselves on being well versed in art and culture." She saw some challenge in Mr. Thornton's statement and answered in kind.

"If I recall correctly, Henry Lennox can draw a fair bit, can he not, Margaret?" Mr. Hale looked up, but did not give Margaret a chance to answer. "When he visited us in Helstone, he made a fine likeness of you, Margaret."

"He was not a true proficient if I recall, though I believe that he enjoyed engaging in it on occasion." There was something in Mr. Thornton's posture that alerted Margaret to the danger that this avenue of conversation had in store. It was apparent to her that, despite forgiving her for their verbal swordplay at the exhibition, he would not be extending the same courtesy to Henry.

Though Margaret was correct in her thinking that Henry Lennox had yet to be forgiven, the change in Mr. Thornton's countenance was not due to anger or scorn or any other such disagreeable feeling associated with being unable to forgive one who has wronged you. Mr. Thornton was afflicted with a case of pure unadulterated jealousy. The feeling was biting and bitter and impossible to repress. The problem with this particular malady was that he could not tell from what exactly the sensation stemmed. He did not know if he was more jealous of the fact that Lennox was well enough acquainted with Margaret to visit her in Helstone or that he had a likeness of her – of which, he did not know whether it bothered him more that he had said likeness in his possession or that he had created it himself, that he had the opportunity for such close examination for such a time as to be able to recreate her image. The jealousy rose within him, making it only the more difficult to swallow that he had no claim on Margaret and therefore, no right to the feelings that pervaded his being.

"…do you agree John?" Mr. Thornton was pulled from his train of thought.

"I am sorry, Mr. Hale. What did you ask?"

"Nothing important, I assure you. It is late and I am sure that I should have released you several hours ago." Richard Hale said by way of an apology. He could see that his friend was tired and began to feel guilty for keeping such a busy man for his own comfort.

"I have enjoyed the company." He stood to leave and bid his farewells. To his great surprise, Margaret stood with him.

"May I see you out, Mr. Thornton?" She asked, her eyes darting between her father and their guest. He readily agreed and made arrangements to visit Mr. Hale the following week.

Mr. Thornton walked in front of Miss Hale, her melodic voice stopping him midway down the stairs. He turned toward her at the sound of his name. Their eyes were level with one another, as Margaret stood two steps higher than he. Her nearness in such a narrow stairwell was electrifying.

"I only wished to apologize for keeping you so late. I had not thought on the lateness of the hour when I asked you to stay." She wished that she had not stopped him on the stairway and had an urge to take a step up, however, thought that it would cause offense and decided to hold her ground.

"I was pleased to stay." There was a pause before he asked hesitantly, "Your mother?"

Margaret's arms wrapped about her own waist in an attempt to quell the overwhelming dread that filled her at Mr. Thornton's question. "Not well, I am afraid."

Unable to stand so near without offering any comfort, he raised his hand and hesitantly placed it just above her left elbow.

"She is so frail, so unhappy and there is nothing that I can do to help her." Margaret's voice cracked in desperation. "I should not be troubling you with such things." He began to rebut, but Margaret continued. "I only meant to thank you, both for your attention to my father and for your kindness to me." She could feel his hand lightly squeeze her arm, his nearness, his touch created such a paradox of emotions. Before she had an opportunity to decipher them the clock struck one, causing the moment that they had just stood within to vanish and Mr. Thornton to retrieve his hand.

Once they had fully descended the stairs, Margaret collected his hat and met Mr. Thornton at the front door. He held his hand out, a gentle challenge in his eyes. Pulling her head back, Margaret decided that she could do worse than meeting him halfway and allowed her hand to meet his. Rather than a quick shake of the hand, as Margaret was expecting, Mr. Thornton simply held hers, staring at it.

"Miss Hale, I cannot imagine what you must be suffering, but as I have said before, I wish to help in any way possible." Margaret shook her head, but Mr. Thornton needed more assurance. "I mean what I say, If there is ever anything, promise that you will not hesitate to call on me."

"I promise." Margaret agreed. With no more than a shake of his head and a stilted breath, Mr. Thornton released her hand and disappeared into the stillness of the night.


	4. Chapter 3 - Strength

_A/N: I'd like to extend a warm welcome to my Betas. Kelly and Renee, please take a bow. I cannot tell you how incredibly helpful they have been in putting the finishing touches on this chapter. Thank you both for making this story the best that it can be._

_As always, reviews are greatly appreciated!_

**The Sum of All Wisdom**

"_The sum of all human wisdom will be contained in these two words: Wait and Hope." _

_Alexander Dumas – The Count of Monte Cristo_

**Chapter 3 - Strength**

Unable to account for the reason, Margaret remained fixed by the door for some time after Mr. Thornton left. His presence evoked feelings within that she did not easily understand. Everything that she had thought of him mere weeks ago was challenged by the man who had recently stood so frighteningly near her. Deciding that it was high time for a dose of reality, Margaret walked back up the stairs and returned to her father's study.

"Papa, the hour is late, perhaps you should be off to bed," she said from the doorway.

A pair of eyes peered over the spectacles atop Mr. Hale's nose with a strained smile not far behind. "You worry far too much after this old man, dearest. I simply have a touch of reading that I wish to polish off. I assure you that I will retire within the hour."

Margaret offered her good-nights and made her way to her own bedroom. Once within, she unpacked her small traveling bag and took a seat at her dressing table. Staring at herself, Margaret quickly, effortlessly, freed her hair from its pins. She ran her fingers along her scalp to relieve the soreness that hours of constraint had caused, savoring the pleasure that this small act allowed. Standing, she made quick work of undressing and was soon walking through the upstairs hallway in her dressing gown. Dixon had spent the entirety of Margaret's London trip caring for her mother and Margaret thought that it was high time for their family servant to get a good night of sleep.

On her way to her parents' bedroom, Margaret decided to look in on her father once more. This time, as she stood at the doorway, she saw a very different picture. After retrieving a blanket from the hall closet, Margaret gently covered his sleeping form. She thought to take her leave, but hesitated. Something persuaded her to bend down and smooth the thinning white hair atop his head before bestowing the whisper of a kiss. As she walked away, his earlier words sounded through her ears; she did worry for him. Whether it was too much she could not say, but worry she did. The vulnerability that she saw in her father's face along with his unprecedented actions these past months frightened her. Margaret could not help but hope that somehow, some way, they would escape this black cloud that seemed to have settled above their little Crampton home.

Margaret was exhausted after spending the past three evenings at her mother's bedside. Sleep did come, though neither for long nor in regular intervals. On more than one occasion her mother's fevered cries were more than she felt that she could handle, though she managed to find the strength to persevere. While she lay at her mother's side in a state that was neither dreaming nor fully conscious, Margaret vividly recalled standing in the Thorntons' home the day that she first learned of the probability of a strike. How clearly she remembered Mrs. Thornton telling her that if she lived in Milton, she must learn to have a brave heart! At the time, Margaret did not know what her heart held, though through the many trials that her time in this town had brought, Margaret could proudly say that she had found the courage to face them head on. There was no doubt that she would do the same here with her mother, not because she was brave, but because she could see no alternative. No, Margaret did not feel as though she had a brave heart, though she was also certain that she was no coward.

A handful of minutes past daybreak, Dixon made her presence known. Margaret placed a kiss on her mother's wet brow and made her way below stairs to see what humble offerings the Crampton kitchen may have in store for her. It was not half an hour later when she was back in her parents' bedroom with a small tea tray and the last of the fruit to be found. Knowing that this breakfast, meager as it was, would be more than enough to satisfy her mother for quite some time, Margaret decided to find some rest herself.

The sunlight streaming through the curtains was near blinding and it took a some time before a disoriented Margaret found her bearings and realized that it must be late afternoon. She quickly dressed and went down the hall to find her mother peacefully sleeping with Dixon close at hand with some needlepoint.

"You should not have let me sleep so long, Dixon. How is she?" Margaret asked, still shaking the last of the sleep from her tired body.

"She has had several spells, but most of the day has been spent like this." Dixon said. "Your father asked me not to wake you. He said that you needed your sleep as well." Margaret smiled at her father's consideration, despite feeling somewhat troubled at his continued absence from the sick room.

"Have you or father been to the Market?" Margaret asked, hoping for a positive response, though knowing there was little likelihood of receiving one. For such a task to have been undertaken, either Dixon would have had to have left her mistress' bedside during one of her predetermined shifts or Mr. Hale would have had to venture into the market, a task that was hardly a man's task, gentle or otherwise.

"No, Miss Margaret, we have not." Dixon quickly lowered her head and continued working on her sampler. "She will certainly be needing something to eat soon, but I could not bear leaving her." After what grew to be a very fruitless discussion, not lacking in frustration, Margaret decided that it would be prudent to go to the market herself. After Dixon provided thorough instruction on what seemed to be a simple enough task, Margaret collected the grocery allowance and her bonnet and was soon on her way into Milton proper.

It was not long before Margaret found that purchasing good, fresh food with a limited purse was not an easy charge. She began to think—no, she was in fact certain—that this would have been a much better exercise for Dixon, who made this trip several times a week. The most plentiful and least expensive option was Jargonelle pears. Her mother had had her fill of pears over the past week, however, they would have to do. She picked the brightest of those offered before her and decided that they would surely please her mother, as they would remind her of Helstone – of better times. Margaret also picked up two apples, a nearly adequate amount of cold meat and cheese, and a loaf of bread. With that, her funds had run dry. While making her purchases, Margaret could not help but notice that the owner of the shop seemed obviously distracted. Looking over her shoulder to see the object of the older man's interest, she was shocked to see Mr. Thornton, not ten yards from her looking over the fruit selection. She would have been surprised to see Mr. Thornton's mother or sister in a marketplace, but to see the man himself was nothing short of extraordinary.

Margaret's breath caught at the unexpected sighting. A part of her, a rather large part if truth be told, wished to simply slip out of the shop unnoticed. She laughed at herself and after paying the good man, who was obviously as taken aback by Mr. Thornton's presence as she was, Margaret collected her basket, threw her head back and closed the gap between them.

"Good evening, Mr. Thornton. I would never have thought that I would see you at the market," Margaret said with a genuine smile. He turned and greeted her with an expression that seemed to take five years from his face.

"No, I do not generally come here, that is true." He nodded at her basket, and with a look of understanding between both parties, took it from her. "How is your mother?" he asked. Margaret would have to admit that when these questions came from Mr. Thornton, they always seemed to stem from genuine concern rather than mere civility.

"Thank you," Margaret said. Mr. Thornton could not be certain if the thanks was due to his taking the basket or asking over her mother, but he was glad to have it either way. "She is not faring well, I hate to say. Dixon will not leave her side, and we needed a few items to get by." If Mr. Thornton was confused by Dixon staying at home with the mistress while Margaret made the long walk to handle business that should be managed by the household servant, he did not let on.

"I was just on my way to visit your family and thought that I would pick up some fruit for your mother." Mr. Thornton said, somewhat embarrassed to be caught at his task before it was completed.

"Oh Mr. Thornton, how very kind of you, that would be a welcome thing indeed. She loved your grapes ever so much. I have bought some pears; they are in season after all." _And very affordable_, she did not add. "All that mother will eat is fruit now, and she has quite the hunger for them." Margaret would normally not accept an act such as this—she certainly would not if it were for herself—but as it was for her ailing mother, she would not reject Mr. Thornton's hospitality.

"Then I am happy that I have found you. Please join me over here," said Mr. Thornton as he led her gently by the elbow. "Pick out whatever you think she may enjoy." They walked around discussing the various produce available. Margaret settled on plums, as it was late summer and they had just come in season. She knew with certainty that her mother had not enjoyed a plum in over a year. Not willing to allow her to leave him with only a few plums, Mr. Thornton added cherries and a few peaches to his purchase, and was sure to choose only those with the most vibrant colors and delicate blooms.

"Mr. Thornton, you are too generous," Margaret said, feeling, as she had of late, as though she had perhaps misjudged this man. She could never imagine any other man in her acquaintance personally overseeing a task as menial as buying fruit at a market.

"If I can help you," he paused for a moment, collecting himself before continuing, "your family, by such a small gesture, I will do so, and do so gladly." Mr. Thornton took Margaret's basket to the shop owner, who was not shy about imparting the great honor that it was to have such an influential man in his shop once more. Margaret noticed Mr. Thornton's jaw tighten when the owner spoke of his previous visit, but could not understand that that visit had been to purchase grapes for her mother—the day after Margaret's refusal. The older man carefully packed the fresh fruit into the basket alongside Margaret's pears at Mr. Thornton's instruction. Before she knew what was happening, Margaret was being escorted home. The tittle tattle that surrounded them was enough to make Margaret wish that she had not taken his arm, but after the great favor that he had just shown to her family, she could hardly snub him in so public a manner.

"I do not believe that we had expected to see you again so soon." Margaret said, for lack of another topic.

"If I must be honest, Dr. Donaldson visited me this morning after his usual visit to your home." Mr. Thornton admitted.

"What did he say?" There was more than a hint of eagerness in her voice. Margaret knew full well that Mr. Thornton was compensating the doctor for his visits, but it did not feel right to her that he may know more about her mother's condition than she did.

"He said that things seem to be progressing as he expected." Margaret nodded in understanding. The good doctor had consulted with her on several occasions, there was no need to elaborate. With the basket firmly secured in the crook of his elbow, Mr. Thornton covered her hand with his. She tensed beneath his touch, though before he could decide whether to remove his hand, her countenance had nearly returned to normal.

"I—I am grateful that our paths crossed this evening," she stumbled somewhat before continuing. "I am certain that my arm would have tired out making this trip with such a bounty. I wonder at Dixon doing this every week."

"I am happy that you were there as well." He looked as though he were going to say something more, but had decided against it. After a prolonged silence, Mr. Thornton asked, "Why did you come rather than sending Dixon, if I may ask?"

Margaret shrank somewhat under Mr. Thornton's heavy gaze. "It was easier that way, I suppose."

"Easier?" Mr. Thornton attempted not to press, as he saw that it made her uncomfortable, but he could not help his curiosity.

"I was up with Mama all night. Upon waking this afternoon, there was no fruit for her to eat and Dixon was clinging to her post." Margaret could not be certain, but she thought that she read disapproval in his features. "I was tired, mother had a need and it was just not worth the argument." His stare felt heavy upon her. "You must think me so weak."

"Weak?" Mr. Thornton repeated as though he had never before heard the word. There was a pause in his step. Margaret allowed her eyes to slowly meet his. "Miss Hale, you are one of the strongest women that I know." He closed his eyes for a moment before continuing. "Your love for your family is admirable." He turned back to the path. "There is no weakness in that." There was a slight pressure on her hand before he removed his and returned it to the basket.

The two continued in a companionable silence, though neither noticed as they were both consumed by their own contemplations and insecurities. Mr. Thornton saw Margaret as so strong, so self assures; she seemed to need for nothing. How could such a woman not see it in herself? Even on the brink of losing her mother, her thoughts and concerns were with those around her, with no attention paid to how it may be affecting her.

"Miss Hale." Mr. Thornton stopped walking in the narrow pathway that ended in eyeshot of the Hale home. Margaret broke her reverie and gave her attention to her escort. "How are _you_ doing?" He could see Margaret nearly flinch at the question.

"I am getting by," Margaret responded. In truth, this was a question Margaret was unprepared to even ask herself, let alone answer. The last person who asked her anything similar was, in fact, Mr. Thornton at the exhibition. She could not dwell on it, could not even allow herself to think on it, for if she was to make it through this crisis, it would be much easier to do so without the complication of feelings. Margaret turned back in the direction of her home but was quickly stayed by Mr. Thornton's hand.

"If you need to talk—" Mr. Thornton let the words escape his lips before he had thought them through. There was no question that he meant them, but Margaret seemed to become more uncomfortable by the moment.

"I am doing just fine, as you see." She pulled her arm from his and gestured to her body as though it was outward proof of her mental state. "Now, let us not waste any time, mother will surely be hungry." This time, Margaret walked ahead of him, certain that she would not be stopped on a second attempt to turn towards her home. She was not.

Once inside the small Crampton home, Mr. Thornton noticed that the house was not as well lit, as it tended to be on his regular visits, and there were no voices welcoming him up: it seemed to be an entirely different home. He watched as Margaret walked in and lit the small lamp on the entry table. He watched her, his heart racing as she removed her bonnet and hung it on a hook by the door before raising her voice and calling, "Papa, I am home. I have brought Mr. Thornton with me." He graciously accepted her smile as she spoke his name. "He has brought fruit for mother."

Richard Hale soon materialized from the depths of his study and greeted the two of them, and then invited John to come up and join him.

Grateful to be home, Margaret turned with a smile toward her guest. "Go on up," she suggested,

"I will take the basket." She was not prepared for Mr. Thornton's reply.

"I will be up in a moment, Mr. Hale. I am just going to help Miss Hale first." Mr. Thornton replied, holding out an arm in a gesture that seemed to say 'whither thou goest, I will go.' Margaret knew that arguing this point with Mr. Thornton would not be a worthwhile venture. She led him into the kitchen and suggested a place for the basket. Thinking that he would leave after doing her this service, Margaret thanked him and walked to the other side of the kitchen. She wasted no time putting her apron on over her dress. She turned to put the kettle on and was shaken to be met with an eager Mr. Thornton. He had considered stripping himself of his jacket and rolling up his long sleeves as well and would have if he was not certain that it would startle her more than his mere existence in that moment.

"What may I do to assist you?" Mr. Thornton asked.

"I really am quite alright. You have helped a great deal already. Go on up and take your lessons with my father, I will only be a short while." Margaret insisted walking past him. She was embarrassed enough with him holding the knowledge that she was doing scullery duties and had no intention of eliciting his assistance.

"I do not have lessons today." Mr. Thornton replied.

Margaret looked at him for a moment and attempted to appease him. "I appreciate you bringing the basket all of this way, Mr. Thornton. You have done me a great service, but I am sure that my father is wanting for your company now."

"Please, Miss Hale, you must have quite a bit to do down here. Just allow me some task." Margaret looked at him. She felt as though he genuinely did wish to help. The large copper kettle had always been more than she could handle, and it would be required if she was going to make two pots of tea. Despite everything within her in turmoil, Margaret assigned Mr. Thornton, the Master of Marlborough Mills, the task of filling the copper water kettle and stoking the fire to encourage boiling. While he worked diligently on his undertaking, Margaret quickly prepared a small offering of fruit for her mother. She was certain to only include the fruit that Mr. Thornton had purchased.

When he had finished with the kettle, she sent him above stairs, plate in hand: "Please go on up, if you like." She spoke in a more resigned tone than she had previously used with him. "Thank you for your help."

"You are welcome." He was unable to suppress a smile at the thought of being dismissed once more by this woman. "How do you intend on taking the hot kettle off of the stove? I would imagine that to be more difficult than what I have done for you thus far."

"I will manage," Margaret said. There was simply no handling this man.

"I have no doubt that you could, but I can manage it much easier than you. I will stay until I see the job through, then you may rid yourself of me." Mr. Thornton furrowed his brow in anticipation of her response.

"There is no arguing with you then, I suppose?"

"Quite the contrary, if our past has anything to say for it." She laughed at his candor. "Now, what else may I do before this boils?"

Margaret looked around; no other chores needed her immediate attention, at least none that she was willing to perform before him. She thought for a moment to hand him the little broom and request that he sweep the modest hearth—if only to see such a great man bent over a broom that was small on comedic proportions even for a woman of Margaret's size. She scolded herself and began readying the tea trays.

"Do you ever find time to read for leisure, Mr. Thornton?" Margaret asked, leaning against the counter.

"I have little time for leisure reading, I am afraid, though I do have a rather extensive library." Margaret raised her eyebrows. "You see, Fanny orders any novel that receives any type of accolades in the London papers."

"She is an avid reader, then?" Margaret asked, surprised by the thought of Miss Thornton being well-read.

"I have never seen her with a book in hand unless she is taking it out of shipping paper." Mr. Thornton laughed at himself. "I should not tell you that, I am sure. You see, she and one of her friends will discuss them some evenings and every so often I am working from home. If their discussions are any indication, I would venture to say that neither of them has ever made it past the cover." Margaret bit her lip to keep from laughing.

"You eavesdrop on them, then?" she asked.

"I am fairly certain that they intend to be overheard. It would be a feat to take no notice." Mr. Thornton was about to continue, as he was enjoying this vein of discussion, when the kettle sounded. He poured the water into the two pots as instructed before carrying the tray of fruit up the stairs.

Once she had the kitchen to herself, Margaret could not help but laugh at the oddity that this day had become. She sliced the bread and arranged some of the cheese and meat on a tray for the men to enjoy. She first took up the smaller pot to her mother and Dixon and was surprised to hear masculine voices emerging from her parents' bedroom. Margaret was certain that her father had slept in his study for the past few weeks, and did not think that he had so much as stepped a foot within the room. Once she turned the corner into the room she was pleased to see all members of the household as well as Mr. Thornton congregated in the little bedroom. Mr. Thornton was kneeling at her mother's bedside receiving thanks for the fruit that he had bought for her. The men stood upon Margaret's entry.

Pleased to see her mother alert, Margaret quickly poured a cup of tea and joined her on the edge of the bed to assist her in drinking it.

"Mr. Thornton is so kind, Margaret," Maria Hale was able to say with some difficulty.

Margaret turned toward Mr. Thornton and her father and said in agreement, "He is very kind, mother, you are right." His presence in the room seemed overwhelming, causing Margaret to encourage her mother to take a bite of plum, though she would not be dissuaded, Mrs. Hale continued quietly.

"He is not at all like we thought when we first met him, is he?" Margaret felt waves of heat fill her face and was relieved to hear the door closing, which left the three ladies in the bedroom alone.

Mr. Thornton wished to hear Margaret's reply, but he knew that Mrs. Hale no longer had long wakeful periods and felt it prudent to leave mother and daughter alone together. Though every fiber of his being wished for just the opposite, he made the suggestion of leaving the ladies to their devices and sharing a glass of brandy in the study. As the door closed, separating the men from the women, Mr. Thornton thought that perhaps he could feel another beginning to open.


	5. Chapter 4 - Respite

_A/N: I would like to extend a few warm bits of gratitude: _

_Kelly—Beta-extraordinaire! She has an amazing talent for wording and punctuation and has truly improved this chapter. _

_Kristina—Thank you so much for your encouragement._

_Val—For helping to give Fanny her voice! _

_Thank you to all of my reviewers. Feedback is welcome and encouraged. This was a very difficult chapter to write and receiving feedback from the previous chapter helped me to push through! Please consider taking a moment to let me know what you think. _

The Sum of All Wisdom

"_The sum of all human wisdom will be contained in these two words: Wait and Hope." _

_Alexander Dumas – The Count of Monte Cristo_

**Chapter 4 - Respite**

It was no more than half of an hour before Margaret joined the men in the study. Her mother used every bit of energy that she possessed expressing her approval of John Thornton. She went so far as to tell Margaret that, though it was a shame that he was a manufacturer, she considered him to be the equal of any other in their acquaintance. Something within Margaret was pleased to hear such accolades from her mother. If her mind had not been so clouded by a flurry of events, she may have understood that within her a slight bending of her heart had occurred in a direction that she would not have expected. As she was unable to read the inner workings of her being, Margaret simply attributed the warmth that now resided within to the thought that her mother did not despise everything about Milton and therefore could live the rest of her days in some semblance of peace.

Before taking her seat, Margaret made quick work of preparing a small plate of meat, cheese and fruit along with a cup of tea for both men. All were happy for the company. Once she saw to it that everyone was situated, Margaret picked up a novel that had captivated her over the past few days. She poured herself into the pages, enjoying this bit of respite for what it was. She was so engaged with the words before her that she failed to take notice of anything—or anyone—else in the room. When her father finally repeated himself just after clearing his throat, Margaret looked up, embarrassed.

"I am sorry, Papa, did you ask something of me?" Margaret asked, taking that moment to refresh the tea cups.

"Mr. Thornton only wished to know what you were reading. I explained that you generally enjoy novels when you are at your leisure." Richard Hale's words were enrobed in a slight tone of chastisement.

Margaret looked toward Mr. Thornton. His countenance held neither frustration nor signs of impatience. If she were to assign an emotion to his present state, she would designate that of contentment. Margaret thought it strange that this man—this great man—could feel satisfaction after such a day. The feeling of tenderness that that realization brought filled her to the core.

"I apologize for my rudeness, Mr. Thornton. You see, this story has just become so interesting that I seem to have simply lost myself within its pages." Looking between her father and Mr. Thornton, Margaret added, "I imagine you would take pleasure in lighter reading yourself, if you would give it a chance." Margaret was speaking completely in jest. She knew him to be an incredibly important, rather structured man, one of the sorts that did not have time for novels.

"I would like that," Mr. Thornton said, the corners of his eyes creased. "So long as I have someone with whom to discuss such reading." Margaret blushed at the implication. "You seem to be enjoying what you are reading now; do you think that it would do for me as well?"

Margaret was taken aback by Mr. Thornton's forward suggestion. When she made the suggestion, she in no way thought that he would earnestly consider it; moreover, she would never dream that he would genuinely have any desire to read a novel—with her or otherwise. She could not help but notice that her father was not attempting to steer the conversation and did not seem to mind the derailment of his time with his one friend in this northern town.

"Well, I think that this book is quite good, though I cannot say for sure that you would enjoy it." After thinking for a moment, she added, "I cannot imagine what type of books you would enjoy." Margaret meant it as a question, yet became uncomfortable when she was answered in silence. "We could certainly try this one if you would like." She looked down at the book in her hand, her delicate index finger slipped between its pages as a place holder. "This is an American novel, though I do not know the author well. It is not a classic; in fact, it is rather sensational compared to Plato!"

"I would be interested in anything that could appeal to you so fully," Mr. Thornton remarked.

Margaret spoke in a conspiratorial tone, though not so low as to keep the words from her father's ears. "I do not believe that father approves of novels." Mr. Thornton laughed at Margaret's playfulness. He had seen hints of her lighthearted nature, though never had they been aimed at him. The idea of continuing to receive such attentions made him wish to never leave her presence. Oh, that he would not have to!

"Now, Margaret, I do not disapprove of novels, so long as they are tempered with more educational readings." Mr. Hale turned his attention toward Mr. Thornton, who was leaning on the right arm of his chair and smiling in such a way that made him appear five, perhaps ten, years younger. It did Mr. Hale's heart good to see these young ones getting on so well. "I think that it is an excellent idea for you to read with Margaret and would hope that you could both garner some enjoyment from the task," Richard Hale declared.

"What is the title of your book, Miss Hale?" Mr. Thornton asked, not wishing for this conversation, this connection, to end.

"It is called _The Scarlet Letter."_ Margaret fumbled through the sewing basket until her fingers found what they were seeking and then slipped the scrap of calico fabric between the pages of her book allowing her finger the freedom to fidget with the handle of her teacup. She handed the book to Mr. Thornton who thoroughly examined it as if it were a mystical object—perhaps in some small way, it was.

"It sounds fascinating; perhaps I could read it along with you, if that would be alright." Mr. Thornton suggested, allowing his fingers to follow the text on the first page.

"That sounds like a splendid idea, so long as you have time," Margaret pronounced. When she was met with no refusal, she continued, "I must warn you that you should be prepared, for I plan to teach you a great deal, Mr. Thornton," she said in a very diplomatic manner.

"What am I to learn from this exercise, Miss Hale?" Mr. Thornton asked.

"Why, to enjoy yourself, of course." Margaret watched his expression fall, not comprehending the new seriousness that filled his expression. Neither noticed Richard Hale's steady eye on the scene that played before him.

"What is our book about?" Mr. Thornton finally asked after clearing his throat.

"Well, let me see." Margaret thought on it for a moment. "It is the tale of a woman, Hester Prynne, who believes herself to be a widow."

"Believes herself to be a widow?" Mr. Thornton interjected.

"Yes, but she is not!" Margaret exclaimed. "I do not believe that I am giving too much away, as we find that out in the beginning. Hester comes out on the town scaffold holding an infant, which is hers. You see, she and her husband have been separated for long enough to know unequivocally that the child is not his. It turns out that her husband is in the crowd—she does not discover that until later I think, but is sworn to secrecy. While she is before the town, they pin a scarlet letter 'A' on her chest and attempt to draw out the identity of her secret lover, whom-"

Margaret then took note of the faces before her. It was not until saw Mr. Thornton's raised brow and her own father's mouth agape that she realized what she had said. "Perhaps we should read a different book." Margaret finished.

Mr. Thornton breathed out a laugh before covering his mouth with his hand; Mr. Hale looked at his daughter surprised, though his features held a hint of amusement.

Falling back into his serious demeanor, Mr. Thornton said, "Perhaps we can find a happy alternative. I am certain that if I make a plea to my mother, we could borrow the first volume of Matthew Henry's Bible Commentaries'." *

Aghast less at the realization of what she had said than Mr. Thornton's apparent judgment of her reading material, Margaret felt incredibly self-conscious—rather infuriated, actually. She was attempting to decide between chastising Mr. Thornton or leaving the room outright when she heard hearty laughter come freely from both her father and his pupil. Despite her discomfiture, Margaret managed to offer an uncomfortable little grin. She did not know that Mr. Thornton had a sense of humor; she was surprised and more than a little relieved to have found it.

Still, Margaret's discomfort lingered and she found that she desired nothing more than to change the subject.

"Father, what are you and Mr. Thornton reading?" Margaret asked, only to bring about more laughter followed by apologies. "I am sorry, Mr. Thornton. Goodness, what you must think of me!" Mr. Thornton detected her mortification and his mirth quickly faded.

"Do not be sorry." The silken threads that wove Mr. Thornton's voice were tender yet unassailable; his tone took command of the room. "And, Miss Hale?" Something in the manner in which he spoke her name caused Margaret's breath to catch. "I would be honored to read _any _book of your choosing."

_*There was not a book about in the room, with the exception of Matthew Henry's Bible Commentaries, six volumes of which lay in the centre of the massive side-board, flanked by a tea-urn on one side, and a lamp on the other. – From Dressing For Tea, North and South._

The morning after meeting Mr. Thornton at the market, Margaret awoke in her mother's room. This had become usual practice for her over the past week, though this morning presented itself with a very pleasant surprise. Having become accustomed to waking to the ashen face of her mother's restless form, Margaret could not contain the gasp that escaped her lips when she saw a set of bright green eyes upon her. As if the simple act of wakefulness was not enough, Margaret was astonished to see that her mother's color had also returned. Wasting no time, she bestowed a kiss upon her mother's warm brow and made her way to her father's study to alert him to the good news.

Once all inhabitants of the Hale home were aware of the mistress's change in health, Margaret suggested that they call for the doctor.

"A call to Dr. Donaldson might make me seem like a bit of a spendthrift in a time such as this, Margaret," her father suggested. She spent the better part of the morning arguing the point, explaining that the doctor's specific instructions were to call with any change. This was, indeed, a change. Mr. Hale responded as little as possible. He, after all, had known that his wife's illness was not as serious as Margaret and that heavy-handed doctor would like to think, and he had no intention of wasting any more money—his or otherwise—where it was not needed.

Margaret looked in on her father sitting on the edge of the bed beside his wife. She could not remember a time that she had actually heard them simply speak to one another as they were now. She knew that they had once shared a great love, though had never observed any evidence of that actuality. Here, in this moment, Margaret could see it. Their love was not spoken in sonnets or flowered prose; it was whispered in soft tones, expressed through a gentle stroke of the brow, articulated through a single tear on a cheek. Their love, which had never ceased to elude Margaret, now silently surrounded her.

Just before dusk there was a ring at the door. Much to Mr. Hale's chagrin and his daughter's relief, the doctor had arrived to pay his usual visit. Consulting with Margaret, as was his custom, Dr. Donaldson admitted that Maria Hale did seem to be greatly improved. This was the extent of his good news. The good doctor confided to Margaret that in such cases as her mother's, wakeful periods were not wholly uncommon. These occurrences may last hours, days; in very rare cases a week was not unheard of. He made sure to impress upon Margaret that this episode—as episode it indeed was—would come to an end. Margaret listened gravely to the doctor's words standing in the hallway outside of her parents' bedroom. She noticed the light in her father's features and could not bear think of what would replace it if the doctor was correct in his prognosis. Deciding that it would be best to push that thought away until the time came to think on it, she thanked Dr. Donaldson for coming out so late at night and saw him to the door.

The days that followed Mrs. Hale's turn in health brought quite a few changes to occur in the Hale household. Mrs. Hale strongly lamented any daughter of hers working in the kitchen; coincidentally, Dixon also felt that it was high time for things to return to normal in the household and undertook her normal duties. Though Margaret was not completely without domestic tasks, as Dixon was the only servant, she was able to resume her walks and sleep a full night in her own bed. Despite Mrs. Hale's inability to get out of bed, her newfound strength allowed the house to nearly return to a state that it had once seen.

Though Margaret seemingly had more time to herself, nothing that she did was without lingering worry over her mother's wellbeing. After three days of relative stability, Margaret tied on her heavy winter bonnet and coat and made her way to the shops in Milton. Finding her mind much better employed walking to the bookseller than it had been sitting in her quaint bedroom; Margaret began to think on the purpose of her trip. As the last conversation that she had held with Mr. Thornton pervaded her thoughts, Margaret could not keep the corners of her mouth from turning up.

With her mind so happily occupied, Margaret hardly noticed the crisp winter air nipping her nose and coloring her cheeks as she made her way to the shop that she had set out to visit. The Milton bookshop was a far cry from any of the book sellers in London. The selection was decent, if a little limited, and the building itself also housed the town chemist and a confectioner. These strange inconsistencies had once seemed so foreign to Margaret, yet now felt fitting.

It was not long before a clerk approached her; he tried to turn Margaret onto several of the latest titles from London, though none of the storylines seemed suitable. After some time, she was left to her own devices and began to wish that she had gotten a better insight into the type of books that Mr. Thornton might enjoy. While browsing the French section, a title caught Margaret's eye. As she ran her finger down the blue cloth, gold-inlaid cover and something within her said that this would be the book. The title sounded familiar, but she was sure she knew nothing of the book. Surely, neither did Mr. Thornton; what better way would there be to begin this adventure than on equal footing? She picked up the two rather large tomes and walked to the front to make her purchase.

"Miss Hale!" Margaret heard the distinctive voice well before she could locate its source.

Two familiar ladies stepped into Margaret's path with smiles no more genuine than the one that adorned Margaret's face. Suddenly feeling very aware of the books that she held in her hands, Margaret shuffled them uneasily against her chest.

"Miss Thornton, Miss Latimer." Margaret nodded to both women as she addressed them.

"Hello there," Fanny said. "It looks as though you are quite a reader. I of course love reading; it is a particular passion of mine." Margaret nodded uncomfortably. "You remember my friend, Miss Latimer. Oh, of course you do." Fanny paused long enough to allow the two women to offer a slight curtsey to the other before continuing. "Anne and I were just stopping in to see if they had a few copies of a novel called _The Scarlet Letter_. Have you heard of it, Miss Hale?" Fanny did not wait for a response. "I am certain that I read it years ago, though after John asked us about it the other night, Anne insisted that we read it at our earliest convenience, so, here we are."

Hardly knowing how to respond, Margaret attempted to unravel the information that had just been tossed her way. "I have only just finished _The Scarlet Letter,_ Miss Thornton. I enjoyed it very much." Margaret stood uncomfortably before them, not knowing what more to say on the subject. "You are more than welcome to borrow my copy if you would like."

Fanny could not help but laugh at the offer. "That is very good of you, Miss Hale; however, if I were to borrow your copy and decided that I truly enjoyed the book, how could I revisit it at my leisure?" Fanny asked with genuine concern, in her own particularly artless manner. "No, I do not think that is a wise idea."

"I suppose that you have a point." Margaret said half hoping that their conversation was at its end.

"I was telling Miss Latimer on our trip here that I remember the story so well, only I could not locate the book in our library." Miss Thornton looked as though she had just had a groundbreaking realization. "Perhaps I could not find it because I borrowed it back then. This is why I shall have to have my own copy," Miss Thornton said, relief filling her words.

"Your brother said that the book sounded interesting, Fanny. What was it about?" Miss Latimer asked in her quiet questioning manner.

"Oh, it was very interesting. There is this governess who was abused horribly as a child and eventually goes to live with a man and his child or ward or something of the sort. They eventually fall in love but the man has a dark secret that shrouds the entire book with delicious suspense." Fanny began to continue when Margaret interceded.

"Miss Thornton, I believe that you are thinking of a book by Brontë."

"No, Miss Hale, _The Scarlet Letter _is written by Hawthorne, he is American." Fanny said. Margaret began to correct her once more when she was taken aback by what appeared to be a smirk on Miss Latimer's countenance. It was gone nearly the instant that it had appeared, though it took Margaret by such surprise that she forgot what she had intended to say to Mr. Thornton's sister.

"It is so odd to find you here in this bookshop, Miss Hale; we have been here so many times and not once have we run into you," Fanny said.

"Not so very odd, I would venture," Margaret said hesitantly. "We did, after all, find one another in London, and Milton is not nearly so large."

"This is a much more rare a sighting." Fanny said in an enlightening tone. "You see, in London, we were all at the same exhibition." Fanny looked toward Miss Latimer who pressed her lips together in agreement. Margaret did not agree but saw little point in continuing the subject.

"Did you enjoy yourselves in London?" Margaret asked, remembering how terribly Miss Thornton had wished to travel.

"Oh, yes!" Fanny exclaimed in a tone that made Miss Latimer flinch ever so slightly. "How it must have been for you to have lived there! What in the world ever made you leave? If I could only have stayed, I would have."

"I believe that every place holds delights as well as disappointments," Margaret said. She made an effort to understand Miss Thornton, for though she knew her to be brash and to easily cause offense, Margaret was fairly convinced that it was not truly her intention to do so.

"What have you found to please you in Milton, Miss Hale?" Miss Latimer said, much to Margaret's astonishment. Margaret then noticed Miss Latimer look pointedly at the books in her arms, then back up with a raised brow. Margaret did not understand Miss Latimer's implication, though suddenly felt uncomfortable under her appraising gape. Fanny missed the exchange completely.

Up to this point, Margaret had convinced herself that there was nothing wrong in her reading with Mr. Thornton. She went so far as to receive her father's approval before purchasing the books; however, in that moment, in the midst of their discussion, Margaret felt a need for concealment. Her attention rallied as she realized that Miss Thornton was still speaking.

"-I must say that though I have always fancied the thought of meeting a London gentleman like yours who would sweep me up and take me away, I do not imagine that I would give up what I have here, especially now that I have such prospects before me."

It took Margaret a moment to realize that Miss Thornton was speaking to her when she referred to some London gentleman. Margaret's words spilled out perhaps too quickly. "Miss Thornton, I do not have a London gentleman," Margaret urged.

"Say no more Miss Hale," Fanny said in a conspiratorial tone. "I understand precisely."

"I do not think that you do," Margaret continued rather harried, concern flooding her mind.

"Very well then." Miss Thornton dismissed the idea as quickly as it had entered her mind. "Mr. Watson and I have an understanding!"

Anne Latimer turned wide eyes in her friend's direction. Margaret could hardly remember who Mr. Watson was, truth be told, though she was certain that he was one of Mr. Thornton's peers. She was merely relieved to have the attention drawn from her.

"Congratulations, Miss Thornton," Margaret genuinely extended her well-wishes.

"Congratulations are not yet in order. You see, our understanding is not _an understanding_ as many understand an understanding to be, you understand?" Margaret did not understand. "I am certain that he will ask with time. My only requirement will be that we have a house far from the mill, which I am certain that he will have no trouble meeting." Margaret began to speak once more, though Fanny continued, "I could not see John making such a concession for any woman, which it is why it is so wonderful that dear Anne is so agreeable."

Margaret's eyes met Miss Latimer's and in that moment, she felt that she understood the woman that had so recently displayed such a fondness for Miss Thornton. Fanny Thornton was trying on her best days; even so, Margaret could not help but feel sorry for her. There had never been anything comparable to warmth between Margaret and Anne Latimer, but Margaret had never thought that the woman had any mercenary intent before that moment. Ashamed of her thoughts, Margaret decided to give Miss Latimer the benefit of the doubt. It was likely that the women truly did enjoy each other's company.

"I suppose that there would be benefits with whomever you choose. Perhaps we should place a greater emphasis on reciprocated feelings rather than on living arrangements," Margaret said. "If our hearts are in the right place, then I believe that where we live would be of little concern." Margaret watched Anne Latimer press her lips into a thin red line once more.

"Perhaps you are right, Miss Hale." Miss Thornton said before unexpectedly taking a book from Margaret's stack. "What is this about?"

"I am not certain." Margaret responded. She watched Fanny flip to the last page of the book and begin perusing the text.

"I will let you in on a little secret, Miss Hale: Always read the last page of a book before you buy it, then you will know if it is going to be a worthwhile endeavor." Fanny then began at the front and started flipping through pages rather quickly. "This one is difficult to judge. You see, I hate to find myself halfway through a book only to discover that I have wasted my time. This book has some lovely illustrations." she looked around to ensure that they were not overheard before continuing, "Though could you imagine the men of today in such trousers?" Fanny laughed enough at her statement to account for the lack of laughter from her party. After making it to the last page, she snapped the book closed. "I approve of this selection, Miss Hale, Fanny pronounced. "Only I do not understand why you would need two copies." Margaret shrank beneath the critical eye of Miss Latimer and thought on how she might respond.

It was in that blessed moment that the clerk came from the back of the shop and approached the party with two copies of _The Scarlet Letter_, freeing Margaret from the obligation of answering and supplying her with the freedom to politely excuse herself. As she finally made it up to the desk, Margaret requested that the books be wrapped separately, paid and was finally on her way. After such an afternoon, Margaret thought that she needed a dose of sense and made her way to the Princeton district for a long overdue visit.

The dinner bell rang through the Thornton home only a moment after John stepped through the door. It had not slipped his notice that anytime he was late in coming home from the mill, that dinner was always late as well. It was in these little details that John felt his mother's devotion. After changing coats, he quickly made his way to the formal dining room where his mother and sister were awaiting him.

"How were things at the mill today, John?" Mrs. Hale asked while the soup was being placed before them.

"Things are beginning to get back to normal. I wrote Smith, the banker I met in London." He could see that this had piqued his mother's interest. "When I met him on the Wednesday before we came home, he seemed very interested in investing. We will see if anything comes of it." His statement was followed by silence which remained until the second course was brought out.

"Did you do anything in town today, Fanny?" Mr. Thornton asked, catching his sister off guard.

"Anne Latimer and I went shopping." Fanny smiled at both her brother and mother. Hoping for more of a reaction, Fanny continued, "You remember Anne, don't you John?"

"Of course I remember your friend, Fanny," Mr. Thornton said. He never elaborated on the subject of women in front of his mother or sister, as he had learned that any misplaced words often lead to speculation.

"We went to a book seller today to pick up that book that you suggested and you will never guess who we met." Fanny waited for a response for only a few seconds before continuing, "Miss Hale, of all people."

Mrs. Thornton did not miss her son's head snap to attention at the mere mention of _that_ woman's name. A blind man could see that his heart was still engaged.

"What did you speak of, Fanny?" His sister was happy to hear a thawing in her brother's tone.

Fanny began to wax poetic on all subjects breached that afternoon at the bookshop and otherwise. Mr. Thornton sifted through the abundance of information that he garnered from his sister's chaotic discourse.

When he retired to his room that evening, his mind was filled with anticipation of the following day. It would not be long before he would be able to speak to her, before he would be welcomed into her warm affections.

After readying himself for bed, he banked the fire and walked to the window. The moon was low and full and clouded by a night sky filled with smoke and soot. Leaning against the sill he thought over his sister's words from earlier that evening; a smile inadvertently made its way to his lips.

Fanny had spent some time speaking on the idea of living away from a mill; this was always a favorite topic of his sister's. It was when Miss Hale's name was brought into the discussion that he began to become genuinely interested in the discussion. Mr. Thornton's complete attention was engaged when Fanny described Margaret's _silly ideas_ of affection having a greater bearing on future happiness than that of physical location. In the next breath she said that she had thought for certain that that man from the exhibition had been Miss Hale's beau, but as it turns out, she had been mistaken. Though he was eternally grateful for loose lips at that moment, Mr. Thornton felt it necessary to gently chastise his sister for propagating rumors, especially those of a particular friend of theirs. Fanny defended herself by saying that she would say no more about it, as she and Anne had spent most of the afternoon at it and that the topic had been fully exhausted.

Forcing himself climb into bed, Mr. Thornton attempted to assuage the desires of his heart, the hope that this day had brought. He endeavored to keep a firm foot on solid ground, to not give in to his foolhardy longings. There was little that could be done for it; he had lived on hopelessness for so long that the encouragement that his sister had unwittingly brought coupled with the knowledge that in less than a day's time he would see Margaret, was more than enough kindling to feed his aching heart a good long while.


	6. Chapter 5 - Generosity

**A/N: I have changed the order of events just a tad from the book, this was done by design. All of the action happens in October both here and in the book. I have given Mrs. Hale a boost in health and Boucher will be gone longer than the 4 days that the book permits. I apologize that updates are slow in coming, but my beta readers I are putting a lot of thought and time into each chapter. With that said, thank you so very much Kelly, Kristina and Renee you helped tremendously on this chapter!**

**If you are enjoying the story or have any criticism, please take a moment to let me know.**

The Sum of All Wisdom

"_The sum of all human wisdom will be contained in these two words: Wait and Hope." _

_Alexander Dumas – The Count of Monte Cristo_

**Chap 5 – Generosity**

The day which Mr. Thornton had planned to visit Crampton arrived with a bustle of activity. Rising early, he attempted to set all of his strength into whatever task lay before him. He put concerted effort into steering his mind away from a captivating pair of dark eyes and training it upon what was here and now. John Thornton was not a man generally susceptible to distraction, but it took everything in his well-disciplined nature to keep his wits about him.

When Margaret awoke on Thursday morning, she could not conquer the sense of disquiet that sat heavily within her. She ascribed the feeling to nothing more than anticipation of the evening ahead of her; with that, she stepped out of bed into the crisp morning air, quickly found a warm shawl and began her morning toilette. Below stairs, Margaret was relieved to find that Dixon was already in the kitchen preparing breakfast and decided to see to her mother.

There was light perspiration on her mother's brow that concerned Margaret, though Mrs. Hale assured her daughter that she was having a good day and would continue to do so. They discussed all of the tasks which Margaret had planned to accomplish on that cold October morning in order to ready the house for Mr. Thornton's visit that evening. With much assurance that she was indeed feeling well, Mrs. Hale sent Margaret below stairs to assist Dixon.

If there were one nuisance that came with living in Milton that Margaret despised more than any other, it was the dust – or was it soot? – that seemed impossible to ever completely remove from her small Crampton home. The wretched substance made it necessary to wash the chintz curtains twice—no, ten times—as often as in London or Helstone, she was sure. Of course there was indeed more work to be done due to the northern industrial air, but Margaret also often forgot that in both of her previous homes there was the advantage of additional help.

Afternoon tea came before Margaret had expected and she was more than happy to take a cup with her father in her mother's sitting room. Her mother slept fitfully causing father and daughter to keep near silence during their refreshment. Thinking that it would offer greater opportunity for comfort, Mr. Hale asked Margaret to join him in his study. Neither spoke for some time. There was no discomfort in the silence—both minds were occupied in such a way that allowed little room for anything else. It was Mr. Hale who was first roused from his reverie, as something beneath Margaret's chair caught his eye. The packaging was distinct and, without asking, he had some idea of the contents.

"A gift for Mr. Thornton?" Her father's words pulled Margaret from her thoughts in a rather abrupt manner.

"What was that Papa?" Margaret needed to hear it once more as insecurities about the package began to pervade her mind.

"Is one of those for Mr. Thornton?" Mr. Hale asked once more, this time pointing to the twin packages that lay alongside the sewing basket.

"One is for Mr. Thornton, yes; however it is not a gift." Margaret stumbled over her words. "A gesture perhaps; a thoughtful offering, possibly—but it is certainly not a gift!" Her cheeks burned hot and stained crimson. She had thought against buying the book for him at one point, though her father assured her that there was nothing untoward in her providing him with the book that they were to read together. "Perhaps I should remove it from the paper," Margaret said as much to herself as to her father. She was horrified to hear a little chuckle escape his lips.

"Wrappings or no, the sentiment remains." Mr. Hale peered over his spectacles at his daughter's worried expression. "Do not let it trouble you so, Margaret."

"It is troublesome," she said softly. "I do not wish for him to think wrongly of me."

Richard Hale put the book that he had been holding down and gave his daughter undivided attention. "Mr. Thornton is a good man."

"I know that, Papa," Margaret said.

"Do you?" He waved his hand to excuse her from answering. "He has done me a great service through his friendship and I am pleased that you seem to be softening to him." Mr. Hale had much more that he wished to say but could not seem to put his thoughts into words.

"Do you truly see nothing wrong in our reading together?" Margaret asked once more. She had a difficult time harnessing her anxiety on this topic.

"No." He could see that she remained unconvinced. "I will help to maintain propriety; you needn't worry." There was a pause and for a moment where Margaret thought that he might say something more, though the words never came. Something within Margaret made her wish to go to the stool at her father's feet, to beg him for the words to explain this restlessness that she felt when she thought about Mr. Thornton—this uneasy anticipation that consumed her when his name met her ears.

"Now, if you plan on walking to Princeton, you had better go before the hour gets too late." Margaret kissed her father, drenched in disappointment that there would be neither resolution nor consolation on this particular evening.

Carrying the basket that Dixon had assisted in packing, Margaret walked at a faster pace than she was wont to do. Her purpose was two-fold: she wished to be back in good time for Mr. Thornton's visit and the quicker movement made it more difficult for the cold to set in. She stood before the Higgins' hearth and visited with Mary for only a few minutes before returning home. Margaret had made a habit of taking the Boucher's basket to Mary, who then delivered it anonymously. Though she little understood the pride of Milton people, Margaret found that she could at least respect it. Boucher had left to look for work in Greenfield and had yet to return. It was now three days with no news. Asking after the children, she learned that Mary had gone to help throughout the day, that they had next to nothing and that Mrs. Boucher had taken to her bed leaving the little ones to fend for themselves. The only contentment that Margaret could find in this tale of misery was in that she had not put her trip off until the morrow as she had wished to do.

The sun had long since set and the chill that was in the air was even less bearable than it had seemed earlier that evening. Margaret focused her thoughts on the heavy woolen coat that she now fully intended on having made up for later in the winter. Upon finally making it home, she was somewhat disheartened to see that the fire in her father's study had been poorly tended. After adding a log and some kindling, Margaret finally achieved a satisfying height and stood as close as she dared while rubbing her dainty hands along her arms in a less than dignified manner. She watched the blaze dance before her as she allowed her mind to wander into nothingness. She closed her eyes and envisioned the warmth attempting to conquer the cold that had chilled her to the core. Her mental ramblings were interrupted when Dixon knocked on the door and announced Mr. Thornton. Margaret was stunned to see him enter the room. She asked after her father, to which Dixon replied that he was in his room with Mrs. Hale. She added that she would alert him to their guest and he no doubt would join them shortly. Dixon made some comment about preparing refreshments, which neither in the room heard, and excused herself.

His presence filled the room and for only a moment, for a reason that she could not understand, Margaret felt the inability to breathe.

"Please pardon me, Mr. Thornton," Margaret finally said when she realized her rather indecorous position before the fire.

"Not at all," Mr. Thornton replied. "I am a bit chilled as well. Would you care for me to move these closer?" He motioned toward two chairs. Margaret answered with a slight nod and uneasy smile.

Once they were both seated, she could not help but take note of his red knuckles, obviously bitten by the wind. "Is it always so cold this early in the season, Mr. Thornton?"

"The weather is a bit unforgiving, Miss Hale." His words sounded very much like an apology—as though her were responsible for the frigid conditions. A smile worked its way to his lips, though he was not sure why. Perhaps it was that he was where he had wished to be all day—all week really. "This is an unseasonably cold day." When she did not speak immediately, he continued, "Have you been out this evening?"

"I only arrived home just before you," Margaret replied. "I took a basket to the Princeton district." His eyebrows raised, but Margaret continued, "You see, I had visited yesterday. You recall a man named Boucher?" Mr. Thornton visibly stiffened but nodded his assent. "He has disappeared leaving his wife and many young children to the mercy of this world, to the kindness of strangers." She did not know why she was telling him about this, nor believed that he would have any compassion for them as she did. Perhaps she wished to understand his feelings on the matter; perhaps it was simply that it was the topic that was on her mind.

"That is a shame." He seemed overcome by some strong emotion; his normally stone-like countenance betrayed an inner struggle—one which concluded with the appearance of his characteristically stern brow. "Boucher was one of the ringleaders in the riot." Mr. Thornton's voice turned, holding no small edge of contempt.

"He was involved, yes." Margaret would not allow her voice to waiver. "Papa feels that I give him too much sympathy, but he was not unmotivated. I cannot believe him violent by nature. Boucher had to watch his babies starve." Margaret's words were filled with passion.

"The very children whom he has left to the mercy of the world?" Mr. Thornton asked coolly. Margaret's mouth opened as if to reply, but Mr. Thornton was too quick: "Miss Hale, I do not intend to start a quarrel with you, I only mean for us to understand one another, to feel comfortable, to speak frankly." He paused. This was not how he had intended this evening to proceed. "He has suffered for what he has done—his family has no doubt suffered. Though I assert that what you have considered to be a means to an end—I am speaking of Boucher participating in the riot in order to feed his starving children—I consider to be selfishness."

"Selfishness?" Margaret's tone held much more question than it did indignation.

"Selfishness. If what his family has had to endure is so dire, why then, would he leave them? Why would he have participated in a riot when his union told him that they need only hold out a few days or weeks longer? He did these things out of cowardice; he had no thought for his wife, for his children. Had those babies been first in his thoughts, he would have had two options: he could have continued working or he could have stayed the course with his union." The anger seemed to fall from his features. "Boucher was acting out of vengeance, anger. Rallying men for a riot—an act of violence—was _not_ out of thought for his family."

"I can see where you are coming from, but—forgive me—when word got out that you had brought in the Irish workers, the men, Boucher included, were driven to desperation," Margaret argued. "Now that there were men in their places, there would be no waiting out the strike and continuing to work was no longer an option."

"I would have taken them back at their previous pay." Mr. Thornton's words were firm, though tempered with understanding.

"Leaving them to defy their union, their neighbors, their friends?" Margaret was surprised to find that she was not angry, she was in fact eager to hear his rebuttal.

"I will grant that there was desperation, but how could leaving his family help in such a situation, Miss Hale?" Both sat in contemplation, there was a turn in Mr. Thornton's voice before he spoke once more. "Before attempting violence, he could have begged his old job back; after, he could have taken his family elsewhere." A ragged breath escaped before he continued. "There would never be any circumstance, nothing, that would make me turn from the ones I love. Every person has a moment in his life, maybe several, where he feels like a failure; but God gave us minds, and life is never completely without choice."

The silence hung low and heavy between them and the fire began to feel rather too warm. Margaret tried to understand—she wanted so badly to understand him. She thought of what her father had told her about Mr. Thornton's father: how one bad turn—severe enough, as it was, to sink them—had caused him to choose to leave his family, his entire life, behind permanently. What was this, if not selfishness? Her heart softened at this insight. She had begun to understand. With a swift, fluid motion, Margaret's hand breached the chasm that lay between them, placing it on the threadbare fabric of his chair, very near his arm.

"Not every man is as strong as you." The actual words of the conversation seemed to slip away and her eyes settled upon his still-furrowed brow. She wondered if her finger could smooth the troubled lines and for one maddening instant, thought to find out.

Mr. Thornton did not understand how what he had perceived to be an argument had turned to a near tender moment. The thoughts that had only moments before been seeded in disagreement and ghosts from the past now seemed to dissipate into a light of understanding.

It was then that Mr. Hale made his presence known. He had stood in the doorway listening to his daughter and dear friend speak. When he had first stepped in, though he could not quite make out their words, he was taken in by the pretty picture that they formed sitting before the fire in two ill-matched chairs—in what seemed to be a very interesting discussion. With a slight clearing of his throat, both were on their feet.

"Excuse me for my tardiness, John," Mr. Hale began as he made his way to his bookcase at an easy pace.

"There is no need to apologize, Mr. Hale." Mr. Thornton stood and began to return the chairs to their usual home. After moving his, he moved alongside Margaret. "Are you quite warm enough?" His voice was low and silken and quiet enough to be meant only for her. Margaret simply nodded and took a step away to enable him to easily move it.

"What will the two of you be reading?" Mr. Hale asked, once his room was returned to its normal state of comfort.

"I am sorry?" Mr. Thornton asked, at a loss at the sudden change in subject.

Margaret made some sound that had the potential to become a word, and moved quickly about the room. Mr. Thornton's curious gaze followed her as she collected two brown paper parcels from the floor and carried one to him. Standing just before him she began, "We spoke last week about possibly reading together. I am not certain whether you were genuine in your wish to do so, and if you are not, that is perfectly fine, but if you are-" her voice trailed off momentarily, "if you are, I am supplying the means to do so." With that, she placed half of her burden into his hands.

Mr. Thornton's eyes bounced between the pair of rather enchanting dark eyes that stood before him and the package that the bearer of said eyes had just given him. They had spoken of reading together. He had put much thought into it. If truth be told, he had thought of several ways to broach the subject this very evening and could not have fathomed it would be presented to him in such a way.

"It is a book." Margaret continued awkwardly. "I know nothing of it, so I cannot tell you if it is a good fit." There was still no reply. "Please, do open it."

With one last look in her direction, Mr. Thornton untied the bit of twine holding the paper that veiled the package's contents. Sliding his hand beneath the opening on the backside of the paper, he looked once more up at Margaret who was watching him with an unreserved look of expectancy. Once he removed the wrapping completely he watched Margaret quickly unwrap her own and present it to him, as if to say 'mine is the same.'

"I decided to keep them just as the bookseller gave them to me, else I might have read ahead." She watched Mr. Thornton's fingers trace the gold inlaid letters on the otherwise plain cover. He did this for longer than he realized.

"Why?" His first words were certainly not those of gratitude or excitement, not even chastisement. For all of these, Margaret had prepared herself.

"Well," Margaret collected her thoughts, "I thought that we might experience it together, neither of us will have the upper hand, if you will." Her eyes drifted to her father who was sitting quietly in his favorite chair.

"I only meant to ask why you would do something, something so," he shook his head, unusually at a lack of words. "Why are you so generous to me?" The softness in his tone was matched by the lines of his face. His features were no longer set in marble; instead they showed signs of youth and spirit. Margaret was taken with the rare sight of it.

"You had said that we might be friends." Margaret said, trying to remember the origin of her desire to read with him. "I thought that it would be good for the both of us."

"Thank you for considering me." He tried to make eye contact, but hers were set on the light blue cloth of the cover and appeared determined to stay there. "It means a great deal."

Margaret glanced up at him before resting her eyes comfortably on her father. Up until now, she had been unsure if her father's presence had been a comfort or disconcerting, but her eyes implored him into joining the conversation and Margaret could not have been more thankful for her father's impeccable understanding.

"What will you be reading, then?" Mr. Hale asked once more.

"The Count of Monte Cristo," Mr. Thornton answered. He crossed the room and handed his copy to Margaret's father.

"Ah, wonderful novel." Mr. Hale handed Mr. Thornton's book back to him. "Excellent advice, as well." He turned to his bookshelf and thumbed through the disorganized shelves until he found what he had been hunting for. "Here it is, let's see." Mr. Hale turned to the very last page of the book and read the following aloud: "_Live and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and never forget that, until the day comes when God will deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is contained in these words: Wait and hope!_"

"Wait and hope." Mr. Thornton repeated quietly.

"Yes, John, I daresay that all of the wonderful things in this world are worth waiting for. A dose of prayer never hurt a man's prospects either." Richard Hale looked between his pupil and his daughter. "'Wait and hope', it is in there several times, therefore it must be important!" Mr. Hale teased. "You have chosen a wonderful book, Margaret."

"I did not realize that you had read it, Papa." Margaret said, finally finding her voice.

"I have. There is much to enjoy: adventure, romance, betrayal; what a journey you have before you!" Margaret blushed prettily and Mr. Thornton could not keep his eyes from her. "Margaret, why do you not work out the details, as I am sure that Mr. Thornton is eager to begin his lessons." She was not sure whether she heard a hint of mirth behind his words.

Margaret and Mr. Thornton spoke frankly about what they wished from their time together. They decided that having a dedicated day would be far better than importuning on his lessons with her father, though Margaret made it clear that her father would be present. They agreed to meet the following Sunday evening and would decide upon frequency at that point. Margaret offered to have him over for dinner before they met, and was surprised to find herself faced with a denial. They had never had Mr. Thornton over for dinner and she could not immediately understand his refusal.

When he was invited to dine with the Hales, his immediate instinct was to accept and accept gladly, however, he could not forget Margaret at the market and working in the kitchen and could not ask her to do so much on his account. Though he had these thoughts and believed them valid, he did not know whether sharing them would be offensive.

"If dinner does not suit, perhaps you would be interested in tea and dessert?" Margaret asked. "Could I at least tempt you that far?"

"Margaret, John is a very busy man, we are already requesting two of his evenings away from his mill and family," Mr. Hale said, peering above his spectacles at his daughter. Margaret appeared to be thoroughly chastised.

"You offer far too great a temptation, Miss Hale." Mr. Thornton said as coolly as his feelings would allow. "I will be happy to join you for tea on Sunday evening."

"Do you have any favorite sweets?" Margaret asked. "I want to ensure that if we monopolize your time on another day, that you are amply rewarded."

"I am certain that whatever you choose, I will enjoy." Mr. Thornton needed little more reward than what he had already been granted.

Despite Mr. Thornton's reluctance to turn his attention, he allowed Mr. Hale to pull some of it to his lesson. Though it was not readily apparent to the remainder of the room, Mr. Hale's attention waivered as well. Despite the topic at hand, Mr. Hale's mind was very much consumed with thoughts of his daughter and his pupil. It did not slip his notice that his friend had become a much more frequent guest in their home and even a fool could see that his draw was not solely a literary one. Mr. Hale had seen something of a bond between the two of them during their last meeting, his suspicions only strengthening when Margaret had gone so far as to ask permission to read with Mr. Thornton. Not so long ago, he had been certain that Margaret disliked John and this turn from abhorrence to possible affection was rather pleasing to him. How his worries would be alleviated if Margaret would deign to make such a match; it was a concern that she was decidedly lacking of relations who were not aged, ailing or exiled.

The lesson was all but over when Dixon entered the room and asked for Mr. Hale to please excuse her disturbance and communicated that he was needed by the mistress. Making his excuses and offering his goodnights to John, he left, bidding Margaret to see out their guest when the evening was through. Mr. Thornton could not help but see the concern written heavily upon Margaret's features. Despite the selfish desire to linger in her presence, he felt it impolite to overstay his welcome and expressed as much.

Walking down the narrow Crampton staircase, Margaret led Mr. Thornton to the front door where he collected his hat and great coat. She could not help but notice his lack of gloves, which coupled with the harsh October chill made Margaret ask him to wait for her. She returned above stairs much more quickly than she had descended. Mr. Thornton watched curiously as she disappeared into a room he was certain must be her own.

Margaret made her way to her small writing desk. After opening its lone drawer, she moved a satin sachet filled with recently dried lavender to reveal a pair of leather gloves. Upon seeing them, her heartbeat increased to a rate that made her nearly abandon the task that she had come to do. She took them in her shaking hands and worked up the courage to return them to their rightful owner. She could not explain why she had not done so before—or would not, in any case—as she had had several opportunities before this moment. As she began to return to Mr. Thornton, in a decidedly slower fashion than she had come upstairs, she repeated the facts as they stood: it was cold; Mr. Thornton was without gloves; these did, in fact, belong to him..

Mr. Thornton watched Margaret descend the stairs with a very concentrated air surrounding her. He could not imagine what more this evening could hold for him, though he welcomed any excuse to linger near her. Once she stood before him, he could not get her to meet his gaze. "Miss Hale, are you quite alright?" he gently prodded, receiving the prize of her attention once more.

"I am," Margaret said hurriedly. "I brought these." As she said the words, she forcefully, inelegantly, handed him the gloves. Margaret could see the instant that he realized what she had given him. His expression managed to drop even as his forehead raised and creased. She knew the association that he had made and regretted her rash decision of returning them. "You see, they are yours and-" Margaret paused, thinking that the words had sounded far better in her mental ramblings. "It is cold," she finished weakly.

It took Mr. Thornton some time to regain his breath. When she had escaped into the unknown realms of the Crampton home to retrieve something, _these_ were certainly not what he was expecting. He held them, his eyes were trained on them, but all that he could see was her standing before him in the drawing room; he felt everything that he had suffered that day sweep over him in one harsh unforgiving moment. For days he had looked for those gloves, eventually purchasing a new pair which he merely forgot in his haste this evening. Despite his every attempt, he could not account for Margaret having them, Margaret keeping them, or for Margaret giving them to him now.

"I left these? The day-" He looked into her eyes and was unable to complete his thought.

"The day after the riot." Margaret finished for him. She forced her voice to be steady. Despite her previous rationalization, Margaret wanted him to know that all was forgiven, if it could not be forgotten. There was a burning need within her that wished to let him know that their friendship could be open—surely they could both benefit from such an arrangement. Treating the events of those days as though they had never occurred could not be what either of them wished, she rationalized.

"Thank you, Miss Hale." He was more dejected than Margaret had ever seen him.

"I should have given them to you sooner," Margaret said, unable to swallow for a moment. "Only I—I could not bring myself to do so, or perhaps find the proper way." There was hesitation before she added, "I have thought about it, though." She finally managed to look at him only to see that the furrows in his brow had deepened. She lowered her eyes and watched his middle finger trace the spine of the book that the errant gloves were now sitting upon. If only she had the ability to divine his thoughts. She wished that he would say something, anything!

"I understand." There were no further words spoken, no embellishment; leaving Margaret feeling somewhat bereft.

Both sets of eyes were anywhere but upon the other person in the tight entryway of the Hale's home. The relief that Margaret would have felt to have some openness between them was overshadowed by the emotions that an attempt at openness had wrought. She only wished that he would talk to her—she had it in her mind that if they would only sit and discuss this civilly, frankly, that they would come to understand one another and build upon the companionship that they had worked towards these past weeks.

Mr. Thornton had not been prepared to face such feelings as the day had brought. Between them lay an unspoken agreement; he had been certain of it. He had thought that his proposal, as well as any feelings aside from those of friendship, had been discarded or intentionally ignored. Now, with these gloves, Margaret was acknowledging the existence of events that he could only hope to one day revisit. He could not understand what she could mean by it. He did not know what her bringing that day to light could possibly mean.

The longer that they stood there, the more affronted she began to feel by the lingering silence. She felt shame wash over her for a reason that she could not justify. Lifting herself up, she thought that perhaps he thought she had given these gloves just now for some deep-seated reason—that he did not realize that when given the choice between what is easy and what is right, Margaret would always choose the right. She convinced herself to tell him just this when she finally brought her eyes to his face. Her previous thoughts diminished as she watched him fall deeper and deeper into thought; Margaret hesitantly placed her hand on his forearm, which instantaneously drew his eyes to hers.

"Mr. Thornton," Margaret removed her hand and began, not quite knowing where she was going. "You had said that we might speak frankly." He nodded, allowing her to continue. "I think that we should trust one another." She licked her suddenly very dry lips and continued. "I have had these and been afraid to give them to you for reasons as—well, I am sure that you can imagine," she was unable to keep the blush from rising to her cheeks. "I assure you, I did so with good intentions." After a pause, she continued, "I truly am sorry for how I reacted—how I behaved—that day."

Something in her voice, her eyes, took him to a past conversation—their first civil conversation, in truth. He could recall everything that she had said at the exhibition; he had replayed every word often enough. One particular phrase stood out. Margaret had told him that she had grown up quickly in Milton, that she had faced things for which she was not prepared. The thought occurred to him, for the first time, that perhaps her words on the day of his proposal, harsh as they were, were a reaction to an act that was wholly unexpected. The sentiment remained, of course—she did not wish to be his wife—but what gave him hope was the thought that her words, even then, may not have been spawned from hatred. He felt the sincerity of her apology and no longer felt that the possibility of her caring for him to be a hopeless desire.

She had taken his earlier words into account—those of understanding and being forthright—and thrust them into action. He could see that she was endeavoring to meet him where he was, even at the pains of embarrassment. If ever hope had vanished from his heart, her words and actions of this week provided ample sustenance to rouse it from the depths

"We should trust in each other's good intentions, then?" Mr. Thornton asked with an unsteady voice.

"Yes, if you wish it." Margaret stumbled over the simple words; her pulse beat in her ears as she recovered from her own boldness. He could not help but soften beneath her uncertainty.

"I do, thank you," Mr. Thornton responded. Their hands met in the gesture that Margaret had become accustomed to as they bid each other farewell. He placed the book beneath his left arm and slipped on the gloves. Raising his gloved hand up to put on his hat, he detected a hint of Margaret's unmistakable fragrance.

As Margaret watched Mr. Thornton walk away it was with a sense that that evening had marked something important between them. They were left as more than friends, less than lovers; both flying high on the wings of anticipation that would deliver them to a day that would be all their own, a day that was but three days hence, a day that would come as neither expected.


	7. Chap 6 – Honest deceit

A/N: I would first like to say that you most certainly do not have to have read The Count of Monte Cristo to enjoy this story, though John and Margaret will discuss! On that note, if you have seen the most recent adaptation with Jim Caviezel, it is very different from the book; I like to think of it as the best TCoMC fanfiction ever! I actually prefer the movie to the book (for shame, I know!) but as those in the Victorian era were unable to enjoy such a gem, the novel must suffice! If you have any questions about it, please don't hesitate to send me a message.

A very warm thank you to Kelli and Kristina! You are both wonderful, helpful and so appreciated!

**The Sum of All Wisdom**

"_The sum of all human wisdom will be contained in these two words: Wait and Hope." _

_Alexander Dumas – The Count of Monte Cristo_

**Chap 6 – Honest deceit**

Stepping into the darkened entryway of his home, Mr. Thornton removed his hat, gloves and greatcoat. He impulsively put the gloves Margaret had returned to him in his jacket pocket and continued to the dining room.

The dining room was Hannah Thornton's room of choice, though she could not have told you the reason behind her preference—perhaps it was in habitual remembrance of her old economies: this room would require a fire and staying there would prevent the superfluous lighting of yet another fire in the sitting room. Regardless of the reason behind it, her son knew this to be the first place to look should he be in in need of her company. Tonight was no different. When John stepped into the dining room he saw his mother sitting, patiently awaiting his return before she would allow herself to rest. There was only one candle lit; that, along with the low fire, hardly provided the room with enough light to complete any task.

"You should not have waited, mother." He bent down and gave her a kiss before sinking into a neighboring chair.

"I like to see you safely home. Did you enjoy yourself with Mr. Hale?" There was disapproval lingering in her tone.

"Very much so." John untied his cravat leaving the ends hanging casually about his neck. "I will be returning Sunday evening."

"What can he possibly want with you so frequently, John? This will be twice a week for a fortnight. You cannot possibly have use for so many lessons." Mr. Thornton did not answer promptly enough, allowing his mother time to continue. "Were you not planning on bringing some men in on Sunday?" If she could not sway her son with sense, perhaps she would urge him on with duty.

"I am." A sigh of resignation left his lips. "I will offer it to them tomorrow—any who wish to come in on Sunday shall. I fear that three of our long standing orders will be cancelled if I cannot get them out in the next week."

"Then perhaps you should not go to see Mr. Hale." Mrs. Thornton suggested.

"I will go late as I always do—there will be no conflict." His mother had always had an opinion, but never before had she voiced such disapproval as she did when it came to the Hales. "They have asked me to tea and dessert."

"_They?_" Mrs. Thornton asked sharply. "It is not a lesson that you are going for, then?"

"No." Mr. Thornton sat up in his chair and looked his mother straight on, not wishing to keep anything from her—though in the same moment, preparing himself for the discord that he was certain would follow what he was preparing to say. "I go Sunday to read with Miss Hale."

"Miss Hale?" Her tone could hardly be more condemning. "Is she a tutor now, as well?"

"Do not be so hard on Miss Hale, mother." Mr. Thornton kept an easy tone. "She is not teaching me, we are reading together." The corners of his mouth turned slightly as he remembered Margaret's words when he asked what he was to learn from her—she had replied, _"Why, to enjoy yourself, of course."_

"'_Do not be hard on her?_'" Mrs. Thornton calmed her voice significantly after these words, remembering the tender affections of her son's heart. "Perhaps you should be a bit harder yourself, John. You are going to read with her? To what end? Is this not the same woman who thought herself above her company, who refused you—you of all men!" Though her voice was controlled, she shook as she spoke. _That woman_ deserved no feelings from her son save one—hatred.

He needed no further reminders of her refusal tonight. "Mother, stop. I will not hear another word against her—I cannot."

"It is only that I do not understand your interest in her." Mrs. Thornton restrained herself from listing Miss Hale's failings aloud, though she held them at the ready in the event that her son needed a stiff reminder.

"It is not something that can be helped." The clipped tone of his voice would not deter his mother from her purpose.

"There are so many lovely girls who would love to have you. Fanny's friend-"

"I do not want them!" He all but yelled. Standing up, he began to pace before her. "I cannot attach myself to a weak woman, Mother! You taught me that. I have no wish to marry a parrot—someone agreeable to look at who will do no more than return my opinions as her own. I need someone strong and independent—a woman who is not afraid to disagree with me, who can challenge me, challenge my ideals. A connection like this cannot be forced." _Nor discarded_, he added silently.

"Does she love you?" Mrs. Thornton asked quietly.

"No." There was something the depth of his voice coupled with the silence that followed that made that single word linger long after it had been spoken.

"John-" There was so much that she wished to say.

"But she might, in time." He sat once more before his mother, taking her hands in his. "We are reading together, it was her idea."

"It is only that I do not want to see you hurt again." This was the happiest that Hannah Thornton had seen her son in as long as she could recall. She truly delighted in her son's happiness, though knowledge of its source was a bitter pill indeed.

"Mother, I would risk being hurt by her a thousand times over if there was but some possibility of earning her love." With that, Mr. Thornton rose and kissed his mother and bid her goodnight.

When he parted from his mother he felt some relief in his honesty, even if he could not keep her concerns from touching his heart. After preparing for bed, he picked up _The Count of Monte Cristo _and sat barefooted before the blazing fire in one of his matching wingback chairs. He embarked upon the tale of a young sailor, Edmond Dantes, very much in love with a poor woman from the Catalans, Mercedes. Due to the jealousy and vice of others—for various reasons—he was framed for treason and imprisoned. Mr. Thornton's lids began to droop as he read that this couple was separated only minutes before they were to wed. This stirred him in the most alarming of manners. He turned back to a passage that he had marked earlier in the evening:

_We are always in a hurry to be happy … for when we have suffered a long time, we have great difficulty in believing in good fortune._

Those words Dantes had spoken consumed John as he walked, book in hand, to his bed. Though he had every intention of going to sleep, he pulled his bedside candle close and continued reading. Dantes's arrest had taken place, and with interest and curiosity, John followed him through his first miserable years in prison. The clock chimed two, causing John to reluctantly close the cover and smile at the book that had just pleasurably consumed several hours of his evening. After placing the newly-treasured tome on his bedside table, he crawled beneath the bedclothes. Despite his fatigue, the characters seemed to have taken root in his mind—their plights were not easily banished. Edmond had been but a poor sailor until hard work and the premature death of his Captain elevated him to assume the title. He endeavored to do that which was right and seemed to be universally loved. When he was reunited with his betrothed, he spoke those words—words of long suffering—not knowing what great hardship stood before him. As John reached over and snuffed his candle, he could not help but wish that he had the luxury of discussing such thoughts now—in this setting—with Margaret. As his eyes began to close of their own volition, his thoughts lingered on his own long suffering. Free from the doubts and the lack of faith in good fortune which encumbered his waking moments, he soon dreamt of the fulfillment of his desires.

Sitting up with her father, Margaret was able to enjoy the first few chapters of her book. Though her eyelids had begun to grow heavy, she did not yet wish to leave him. Finding the task of reading to be far too taxing (she had had to re-read every section twice over before understanding the meaning) she decided that it was high time for a change in occupation. As she sat in her little sewing chair illuminated by the flicker of a candle and the low fire, she began to draw on the inside cover of her book. There was something about Dumas' description of Mercedes that made Margaret wish to bring her to life.

…_hair as black as jet, her eyes as velvety as the gazelle's, was leaning with her back against the wainscot, rubbing in her slender delicately moulded fingers a bunch of heath blossoms, the flowers of which she was picking off and strewing on the floor; her arms, bare to the elbow, brown, and modelled after those of the Arlesian Venus, moved with a kind of restless impatience, and she tapped the earth with her arched and supple foot, so as to display the pure and full shape of her well-turned leg, in its red cotton, gray and blue clocked, stocking._

The hour or so that it took to complete her sketch was well worth it, as Margaret had scarcely made time for drawing as of late. Mercedes came out almost as Margaret had envisioned her in her mind's eye. She pictured Mercedes much in the way that she thought of Venus: beautiful, seductive and free from the constraints of society. With a satisfied smile, Margaret decided that she would pick up on reading tomorrow, but for now, she would sleep. Giving her father a kiss, she went to her room and prepared for bed. After snuffing out her candle, she crawled beneath the comfort of her covers. The last thought on her mind before falling into a deep slumber was to wonder if Mr. Thornton had enjoyed a similar evening.

A bustle of noises woke Margaret from a hazy dream. She threw on her dressing gown and opened her door to see her father standing out in the hallway. She could hear Dixon in her parent's room. Upon entering, her mother's pallor and glassy eyes arrested Margaret's attention and concern. She addressed Dixon, asking what needed to be done.

"Can you go for the doctor?" Dixon asked. No further words needed to be spoken between them. Margaret hurried to her room and dressed somewhat carelessly, leaving her hair plaited as she had worn it to bed. Sliding into her heaviest of coats, she braved the elements and ran as quickly as her feet would take her to Dr. Donaldson's residence.

After pounding upon the door of the good doctor's home, Margaret waited anxiously for some sign of recognition. She soon saw a dim light appearing brighter through a lower window. The hour was unknown to her, though she would feel no guilt for disturbing sleep on this night. When the housekeeper, Mrs. Marsden, answered the door, Margaret asked for the doctor. Mrs. Marsden explained that Dr. Donaldson was already at another home, but offered to send for Mr. Lowe, and then direct Dr. Donaldson to Margaret's mother as soon as he returned from his call. Margaret agreed and asked directions to Mr. Lowe's house, then set off to find him herself.

Mr. Lowe received a hasty history of Mrs. Hale's condition on the way to the Hale home. Upon entering, all pleasantries were set aside in order to allow him to examine Mrs. Hale. He had not been in the room for more than fifteen minutes when Dr. Donaldson was at the door. Margaret paced the floor of her father's study as Mr. Hale sat staring at nothing in particular—both waiting for word on Mrs. Hale's condition.

Dr. Donaldson came into the hall and asked for Miss Hale to join him; she came out just as Mr. Lowe was leaving the house.

"She is better for now," Dr. Donaldson said before removing his glasses and rubbing his tired eyes. "This seems to be much like the episode that she had over the summer, however, this time it seems to have weakened her significantly." Placing a hand on Margaret's arm, the doctor continued, "She will not recover, I am afraid."

Despite the few tears that moistened Margaret's cheeks, she steeled herself and managed to continue her conversation with Dr. Donaldson. Mr. Hale left his study in time to hear the doctor tell his daughter that the best course of action was to go about their days as usual—read to her, speak to her, let her know that she is loved. She saw some of the worry leave her father's face and only wished that he had heard all that the doctor had had to say. As Margaret walked him to the door, Dr. Donaldson took his hat in his hand and addressed her once more.

"Miss Hale, does the name Frederick mean anything to you?" Dr. Donaldson asked as he stood at the door, ready to make his exit.

"I'm sorry?" Margaret was caught off guard by the question. Breathing became a difficult task in that moment.

"It is probably nothing, a hallucination, I would presume. Only she said it so frequently, I thought that perhaps the name might mean something to you." Dr. Donaldson looked at her intently.

"No," Margaret said with conviction. The doctor eyed her suspiciously for a moment. There was something about this proud young woman that had always spoken to him. There was no doubt in this instance that she was not being truthful, however, he had never been one to pry into a family's secrets. After Margaret thanked the doctor for his late call, they bid each other good night. As the door closed, Margaret made her way up the stairs and back into her room.

Making her way to her dressing table chair, Margaret sat before her mirror. The reflection before her began to blur as tears streamed down her face. Tears were shed for her mother, her father and for Frederick. Margaret even shed tears for Dixon. The only person who received neither tears nor concern was Margaret herself.

Once Margaret had allowed herself a good cry, she attempted to conceal all evidence of such and changed back into her nightclothes. In her mother's bedroom, she was faced with fevered cries for Frederick. Climbing into her mother's bed, Margaret attempted to soothe her, as she imagined her mother had once quietened her. Sleep soon fell over Mrs. Hale, though little would be had by her daughter that night.

After sitting up the remainder of the night with her mother, Margaret slept into the early afternoon. Anxious to hear a report on her mother, she quickly dressed and found Dixon. As the doctor had suggested, Maria Hale's fever and pallor had not subsided. She seemed very frail, though otherwise alert. Margaret relieved her father, who had been sitting with his wife throughout the morning. At her mother's dressing table she found a fresh pitcher of water and poured a small amount into the ornate blue and white basin—a memento from Mrs. Hale's life in London. She dampened a cloth before returning to her mother's bedside.

The cool cloth soothed her mother's brow, for which Margaret was rewarded with a smile.

"Good afternoon, Mother. How are you feeling today?" Margaret asked. She could see the concern in her father's weary eyes.

"Have you heard from Frederick, Margaret?" Her mother asked in an urgent whisper, not responding to Margaret's question.

"No, Mother, I have not. I dare say that a response has likely not had time to make it here. We will hear from him today or tomorrow, surely." Margaret was not quite as certain as her words reflected.

"I have thought on it and decided that you should write him, call him off. Tell him that I am too frightened for him to come. I have had such terrible dreams. Will you do that please, Margaret?" Margaret looked to her father, who was busy tormenting a handkerchief and seemed to have no inclination to assist in such a subject. Apparently Margaret had taken too long to answer, as her mother continued, "If you will only bring paper, I will tell you what to write, I would do so myself, only I have not the strength just yet."

"Mother, I am afraid that that would be impossible." Margaret took a harsh intake of breath before continuing, "Frederick has undoubtedly received the letter by now and is almost certainly on his way here."

None in the room could have known that putting the reality of the situation into words would result in such a scene of weeping as was found in the Hale's second floor bedroom. There was little consolation that Margaret could offer; Mr. Hale left the room entirely. After some urging, Maria Hale calmed and after a long period of what Margaret thought to be sleep, her mother spoke once more.

"Your father told me that Mr. Thornton was coming to read with you tomorrow." Her words were so unladen that Margaret nearly knew not how to answer.

"We are not reading together, exactly. We are both reading separately and discussing it tomorrow evening. We asked him to join us for tea and dessert." Margaret added hastily, "I think that I may postpone to a later day," she hesitated before adding, "wh-when you are feeling better."

"No Margaret!" Her mother said with vehemence. "You mustn't cancel on Mr. Thornton. Not when he has been so very good to us." Maria Hale closed her eyes for several minutes before adding, "What do you intend on serving him?"

"I have not thought enough on it to make a decision just yet." Margaret answered honestly. The past evening had been so full that she had had little time to think of anything.

"You wrote to me once of a sweet that you made with Edith. One that both of the Lennox boys enjoyed. Do you remember?" Her mother opened her eyes and looked at her daughter. Margaret did remember the letter to which her mother was referring. In preparation for one of Captain Lennox's returns, Edith had insisted that Margaret help concoct something spectacular for him, as she hoped that he would soon be making his addresses. That afternoon when he had finally arrived, they all sat and enjoyed the ginger biscuits—of which Edith made certain that he knew were prepared by her very own hands. They had not been to tea for ten minutes before the Captain asked for a private audience with Edith.

"Ginger snaps, were they?" Mrs. Hale interrupted Margaret's thoughts.

"Ginger biscuits," Margaret happily replied.

"Yes. You told me that Edith was certain that they—do you remember, Margaret?"

"Oh, Edith said a great many things, mother." Margaret said with some hesitation. Memories flooded her consciousness, causing Margaret to laugh at her dear cousin's whimsicality. The entire time that they were baking, as well as much of the evening after their engagement had been made official, Edith filled Margaret's head with little nonsensical sayings.

'_The quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach, Margaret. Everyone knows that—wait, perhaps it is across his lips—well, I suppose that either would work in this case!' _

'_What a wonderful world we would live in if only everyone had these biscuits, there would certainly be no famine and our men would be far too happy eating to start a war.' _

'_The Captain knows that I love him. But, be there any uncertainty, these are sure to fill the unseemly void—in both one's stomach and one's heart!' _

'_Love, like sweets, is generally found at social occasions—it starts with a trifling nibble—but soon the whole tray is gone and you find yourself desirous of a whole new batch!'_

'_What makes cookies desirable is what makes women desirable, the right amount of sweetness, an alluring perfume and an appealing shape; though a little decoration never hurt!' _

As Margaret shared these notions with her mother, she could not help but to laugh at her cousin's humorous trivialities—nor could she help but to miss her lightheartedness. Margaret was only more than happy to offer such a diversion.

"Edith is rather capricious and you never know what she is going to say. I am certain that whatever I wrote gave far too much credit to our baking, as I am certain that Captain Lennox needed little inducement to propose." A severe sense of panic caused Margaret to suddenly sit forward—her laughter very much gone. "Why do you wish for me to make these for Mr. Thornton?"

"I only wish for you to make something that he will enjoy. Heaven knows that he has done enough for us." Margaret could not help but wonder at her mother's suggestion. Why would she have brought up that particular dessert that was prepared under those circumstances? She could not believe that it was simply because Margaret had praised them once over a year before. These were things that Margaret wished so to ask her mother, though a lifetime of discussing anything but the heart of the matter kept her from doing just that.

Her mother lay her head back on the pillow. It was quite some time before she spoke again. "Why do you not read some of your book aloud, I should like to hear your voice." With a smile, Margaret did just as her mother requested. There was a distinct change in Mrs. Hale, not merely in health, but in attitude as well. She never used to wish to be read aloud to by any member of the family, and Margaret—who always felt herself to be held at arm's reach—was beginning to feel a nearness to her mother.

For hours on end, Margaret sat in a chair beside her parent's bed. She read aloud until she was certain that she had fallen into a deep sleep; from that point Margaret only read out anything that she found to be of note.

Comfort can be found in many things, and on this day, in these circumstances, Margaret took comfort in the rising and falling of her mother's chest and the rhythmic breathing that she had been so afraid would cease only the night before. Though her sleep seemed anything but peaceful, Margaret found herself giving thanks to her maker for her mother's continued presence.

The sun was high in the afternoon sky and Margaret found herself further engrossed in the story the longer that she read. She was reading a section aloud to her slumbering mother when she came across a something that startled her enough to read it twice over. The young woman that she had drawn the previous evening was on her way to wed Edmond, the man who she loved. Just before the ceremony a Magistrate came to arrest Edmond Dantes. This man of the law asserted that it was not his wish to do so.

"Mother, John Thornton is a Magistrate, is he not?" As expected, Margaret received no answer from her slumbering mother. She read the Magistrate's words once more.

"…_I am the bearer of an order of arrest, and although I most reluctantly perform the task assigned me, it must, nevertheless, be fulfilled. Who among the persons here assembled answers to the name of Edmond Dantes?"_

Unease crept over Margaret. She could not help but wonder if Mr. Thornton had ever had to act in such a way—to carry out an order reluctantly in order to fulfill a duty. As her mother began to stir, Margaret forced herself to push past her deliberations, reading aloud once more. She followed Dantes to a prison, the Chateau D'If. It became clear that he had been wrongfully accused, though Margaret could not easily see why the matter had not been cleared up by the assistant procureur, who had declared that he believed in Dantes' innocence. With a heavy heart, she followed his first years in prison. Prison life seemed to become bearable when Dantes met a fellow inmate, Abbe Faria, who together attempted to escape the prison.

Dixon came to relieve Margaret and she could hardly believe that night had already fallen. Carrying her book with her below stairs, Margaret made her way to the kitchen. In an effort to carry out her mother's wishes, she would proceed to entertain Mr. Thornton; perhaps it would be good for all of them to allow for some normalcy—to not permit their spirits to be consumed by illness and inevitability.

Propped upon a little wooden chair in the kitchen, Margaret continued to read while waiting on her sweets to bake. There was little doubt in her mind that Dixon would have baked these had she but asked, but Margaret had a desire to keep herself busy. Though she could not have readily admitted it, half of her motivation stemmed from wishing to make something for Mr. Thornton herself; as he had gone out of his way for them on so many occasions. The last batch had just finished and Margaret thought to go to sleep when she saw the title of the next chapter, _'The Third Attack_.' The previous chapters had spoken of two attacks that the elder Abbe had suffered, and she worried as to what a third would do to him. The clock struck midnight, causing Margaret to go to her room and ready herself for bed.

When she lay down, her mind was far too filled with what the future held for her characters to simply fall to sleep. There was something in her that—rational or otherwise—wished to discuss her thoughts with Mr. Thornton in that moment. She thought that if they were only able to discuss her thoughts that perhaps they would stop plaguing her. She promised herself that she would only read for a few minutes, just enough to tire her out. Tying on her dressing gown, Margaret went back downstairs to retrieve her book. The fire was still high in the drawing room grate, convincing Margaret to sit before it and read, as it would allow more light and warmth than she would find in her bedroom. With a slight smile, Margaret wondered when her feelings toward Mr. Thornton had bent in such a way as to have been unrecognizable to her earlier feelings.

Margaret sat, bent over her book, reading to the flicker of candlelight and fire. Her heart beat wildly as she read about Dantes plan to escape, her eyes devoured the words as quickly as she could process them. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Margaret's heart leapt into her throat. Checking the mantle clock she saw that it was not yet one in the morning—Margaret could not imagine a reason for anyone to call in the dead of night. She thought to wake her father, but decided against it and went to the door. Keeping herself at a safe distance from the doorway, Margaret asked, "Who is there?"

"Is this the Hale home?" The muffled voice responded.

"It is." Margaret pulled her dressing gown tightly about her, wondering what made her begin to speak to a stranger through the door at such an hour. "It is very late."

"Please tell Mr. Hale that Frederick Dickenson has come to call on him. He will surely admit me despite the hour."

Margaret, recognizing the alias of her brother, and with no thought to her attire flung the door open and once he was in the security and privacy of the Hale home, she took in the man who had left so long ago as merely her older brother.

"Margaret!" Frederick exclaimed just before wrapping his arms around his sister. Pulling her away at arm's length, an air of seriousness returned to his manner. "Is my mother-" He did not finish his thought.

"She is not well, though will be so pleased to see you! Oh, Fred, I cannot believe that you are here." Margaret escorted Frederick up the stairs and woke her father. The four members of the Hale family and their faithful servant enjoyed the warmth that family togetherness had wrought. They all sat up until the first signs of the morning sun began to illuminate the northern sky and Mrs. Hale expressed her need for rest. All bid her a kiss goodnight and left the room. Margaret gathered a change of clothes and went to the sloping attic above her parent's bedroom, giving Frederick the comfort of her slightly larger bed.

So happy was she to see her son, that Mrs. Hale felt that she may have overtaxed herself in his reception. There was a heavy discomfort in her chest and a dull throbbing in her head, both of which were new, and both she attributed to nothing more than the excitement of finally seeing her boy—she would not trouble anyone with her ailments on such a day.

When Margaret awoke, she dressed and found her father and brother in her father's study. With Margaret to lead them, they all returned to Mrs. Hale's bedside as they had the previous evening. They found her asleep, yet decided to stay and speak quietly in the event that she awoke—which she soon did.

Margaret and Frederick spent what little remained of morning and early afternoon comfortably speaking at their mother's bedside. Margaret told him of their adventures in the wilds of the north while Fred regaled them of stories of Spain. Most of Frederick's conversation centered on a young woman named Dolores Barbour; speaking of her made Fred blush furiously. The only testament to her beauty was a long black tendril of hair of which Margaret merely caught a glimpse and seemed to make her brother exceedingly proud. Through much prodding, Frederick learned much of the Higgins family and a little of the Thorntons—the blushes which accompanied discussions of the latter told far more than her words.

The voices of her children comforted Maria Hale. She was particularly focused on the deep tones of her son's voice; they swept over her, filling her, swaddling her heart until she had fallen to sleep in complete contentment.

Once their mother was asleep, Margaret and Frederick lowered their voices and watched her as she thrashed about. Margaret could not help but to compare how peaceful she seemed in waking hours to how tormented she seemed in her sleep, nor how her unease in sleep had increased drastically over the past few days. She shared her observations with her brother.

By early afternoon, the newness of Frederick's visit seemed to dissipate into familial comfort and all began to enjoy the company of the other with a livelihood that this small home had yet to know.

Margaret, unsettled by the injustice of her brother's lot, suggested that he seek a lawyer to at least attempt to clear his name. After his first refusal, Margaret asked that he consider it for his Dolores, if not for himself. Would it not be best to give her a name that has been cleared from wrongdoing?

"I have thought to seek a lawyer, but I would not know how to choose one without seeing them and judging their character for myself." Frederick replied. "I am a criminal, Margaret." He saw his sister wince at his words. "There is many a barrister who might think himself doing his country a service by turning me in—collecting a hundred pounds for his good deed. No! I cannot seek a lawyer here."

"What if I knew of one? A good one, I've heard. Papa, you recall Henry Lennox? He visited us in Helstone." Her father nodded. "He is clever and very honorable. I would think that he would do a great deal for any relative of—of Aunt Shaw's. You can take a train to London tomorrow evening. I will send you with a note and Mr. Lennox will surely receive you."

Had Frederick not stood over her shoulder as she wrote the little missive, Margaret would have fretted far more than she would like over the words that she was to write. Since their disagreement they had seen one another once and seemed to be on good terms, though she would never have been so bold as to write to him. A person will do many things out of their character when desperation and fear for a loved one loom overhead. Though she had not the time to measure every word, Margaret took enough comfort in those that she had written.

Over their noon repast, Mr. Hale spoke to his children about the importance of keeping Frederick's visit in complete secrecy, none but those present must know anything of his visit, lest they wish to place Frederick in further harm. With that being said, Margaret's mind flew to Mr. Thornton. How, when she had thought of little else over the past week, could she have forgotten him in such a moment—such a crucial moment?

"Papa, Mr. Thornton is to come by tonight, do you remember?" Margaret asked in a rather harried fashion.

"Oh dear, I am afraid that I had forgotten all about it. That will not do at all," Mr. Hale said, thinking of a way to put off their meeting.

"Is this the same Mr. Thornton who you touched on ever so briefly this morning?" Frederick asked in a somewhat teasing tone. "Perhaps you can tell me more of him, father; Margaret seemed rather reticent."

"He is our dearest friend here in Milton. One of my pupils; he and Margaret have been reading together as well," Mr. Hale said with an air of nonchalance.

Before Frederick could comment further, Margaret spoke, not wishing to evaluate her connection with Mr. Thornton any further than necessary. "Should we send a note, Papa?" The thought had not escaped her lips before she saw the trouble with such a plan. "That may not work. If we send a note telling him that Mother is ailing, he would surely attempt to visit her, would he not?"

"You are right," Mr. Hale groaned with his answer. "But, if _you_ were to deliver a note personally?" The hopeful turn of her father's voice added to the import of his words. "He would receive any news well from you, I am sure of it." Margaret could not slow her pulse and was certain that she was a lovely shade of crimson.

"I will go and go gladly, but what if he should ask as to why he cannot pay a visit, we have never denied him in the past." Margaret paused in worried thought. "I do not wish to lie to him." She had, after all only just asked for his trust.

"You needn't lie, my dear. I only ask that you limit the information that you offer him." Evaluating his daughter's worried expression correctly, Mr. Hale continued, "—in order to protect your brother, of course." Margaret understood what her father was saying, however, she was unsure as to how Mr. Thornton would respond—to her presence, to the information, to their change of plans—the looming unknown was disconcerting. Her father quickly scribbled a note and without another thought or moment's hesitation Margaret joined Dixon in the kitchen to gather her things. She worked diligently as in an attempt to suppress the one question plaguing her mind: Was omitting the full truth for the sake of a loved one still a lie?

_**A/N: I wrote this and the following chapter together, so it is finished, under revision and should be ready very soon! Thank you so much for your patience with this one. I would love to hear what you are thinking thus far—you do not have to be logged in to leave a review. **_

_**On a side note: It must also be said that ginger biscuits are indeed that quickest way to a man's heart—not to mention, the perfect book club companion!**_


	8. Chapter 7 - Edmond & Mercedes

A/N: A big heartfelt thanks to my Beta readers. Kristina – for working hard on this in the midst of chaos; Renee – for questioning my incredibly questionable word usage ; ); Kelly, who challenged me to make this scene longer and therefore more sincere. Cheers to all of you who read and leave reviews! Enjoy the semi-calm.

**The Sum of All Wisdom**

"_The sum of all human wisdom will be contained in these two words: Wait and Hope." _

_Alexander Dumas – The Count of Monte Cristo_

**Chap 7 – Edmond & Mercedes**

Thinking that a peace offering may make the news far easier to deliver, Margaret packed a small basket with four and twenty ginger biscuits. As she was walking to the front door, her copy of _The Count of Monte Cristo_ caught her eye, still opened and where she had left it the night before. Without thinking, she tucked the novel into the basket as well, kissed her father and brother and was on her way.

Margaret was relieved that the weather had calmed considerably from three days prior and—though she was in want of a warm fire—this two mile walk from Crampton to Marlborough Mills was a pleasant one. The heavy pounding of her heart sounded through her ears as she attempted to gather her thoughts. As she approached the familiar green gates of Mr. Thornton's Mill, she was surprised to hear the sounds of the machinery, somewhat more muted today than usual, looming through the dust-filled air. Upon entering the courtyard, Margaret noticed that though there was activity on this particular day, that there was much less commotion than any other day on which she had visited. Her presence was quickly noticed by Wallace, the mill's overseer, who approached Margaret and asked if she would prefer to be seen to the house or to Mr. Thornton's office. Though there was little lag in the time that it took for her to answer, Margaret agonized over how to answer his rather straightforward question. She had little desire to engage in the formality that a house visit would entail, all the while holding little doubt that such a visit was the more appropriate option. Justifying her decision with the fact that her father had expressly asked that she deliver the note to Mr. Thornton—and going to visit his mother would almost certainly not allow her to do as much—Margaret's conscience was cleared and she requested that she be escorted to Mr. Thornton's office.

Mr. Thornton sat behind his desk, as he had countless evenings these past months, attempting to find a means out of this financial dilemma. Despite his frustration, he could at least find some solace in not being surrounded by the unnerving silence that Sundays generally provided. Silence in a mill, especially since the dawning of the strike—the onset of his financial troubles—had always left him feeling unsettled. This particular Sunday utilized less than a quarter of his usual staff, which allowed Mr. Thornton to work with fewer interruptions while still working toward filling much anticipated orders. As he poured over the books—reworking figures that had been run dozens of times—he once more silently cursed the cause of his current predicament. The mill had been on steady ground prior to the strike, but the inability to fill several large contracts put an end to that. The workers were back in place and production was at a high, though not half enough to make up for the time that they had lost. Still, he had yet to lose all hope. If he could but find an investor—if he could keep but half of his current clients from leaving to go to one of the thousands of mills in Lancashire or Cheshire—then_, maybe_ he would have a fighting chance.

Sifting through the most recent mail he found another letter from the desk of Lord Grey Goodwin—one of the men that he had met at the exhibition. Lord Goodwin was writing to renew his interest in supporting Marlborough Mills in some innovative endeavor. This was the second letter of its kind, and as uncomfortable as the idea made him feel, Mr. Thornton could see little other option. With a reluctant hand, he penned a reply to Lord Goodwin's agent explaining the current improvements and inviting Lord Goodwin to tour the mill. Aside from Goodwin, Mr. Thornton had still yet to hear from John Sturgin—an investor that Mr. Latimer had suggested he contact. He knew little of Sturgin and therefore held little hope that anything would come of the connection, but John Thornton was not one to give up without a fight. With a sigh, he retrained his energy on his ledgers, and there he sat—coat hanging carelessly over the back of his chair, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows and a hand coursing through his dark hair— until a knock at the door and a slight gasp caught his attention.

The instant that she saw him, Margaret was absolutely certain that she had made the wrong decision when questioned by the overseer. She had never imagined Mr. Thornton in so disheveled a state and was mortified at her forwardness, at her burning cheeks and at her momentary inability to look away. Once she regained her senses and with little other option before her, Margaret remained in the doorway with her eyes trained upon the corridor that she had just walked down. She heard Mr. Thornton invite her in as well as the rustling of fabric—the idea of which made her more uncomfortable still. Upon entering, Margaret muttered something about a note from her father and with less decorum than she had ever displayed in his presence, thrust it into his hands.

Finding some humor in the situation and a desire to keep Miss Hale in his presence, Mr. Thornton paid little heed to the note and addressed its messenger. "Miss Hale, I assure you, I have returned to my normal state."

Margaret—still envisioning him in his previous manner of dress—glanced up and offered a fretful smile.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Hale? I was not expecting to see you until this evening." Mr. Thornton very carefully crossed in front of her and gestured for her to come into the room. She did so, taking a seat in one of the two chairs that sat before his desk. Mr. Thornton took the other chair, not wishing to place a large piece of furniture between them.

"Father sent a note," Margaret uttered once more.

Noting that she was still not comfortable, he thought it prudent to speak more frankly than he would have ventured to do only weeks previous. "I apologize that you had to find me in such a state—it was not my intention to scandalize you, I assure you. I am accustomed to working alone on Sunday afternoons."

"It was not so very bad," Margaret said, her cheeks aflame. She finally lifted her eyes to his and found that there was nothing but kindness to receive them. "I did not know that you worked on Sundays," Margaret remarked absently. Taking in his appearance, she noted that though his clothing had returned to their rightful places, she could not say the same for his hair.

"That is true. I have offered my hands—men," he quickly corrected, "the opportunity to earn extra wages by coming in on Sundays. We are behind on orders and they are in need of wages; I have had a decent turnout and am glad of it." He looked at her—silent, sitting beside him in all of her stately splendor—and wondered what benevolent force had brought her to him only hours before he was set to see her. When that thought manifested itself, he realized that there could be no reason; at least not one in which he could account for, one which would support her presence—it was then that apprehension took hold of his heart and with reluctance he asked once more, "What brings you here, Miss Hale?"

Margaret looked at him, her throat felt dry, uncomfortable. She could not bring herself to utter the words that she had rehearsed; not when his eyes held such honesty and invitation. This was not at all how she had expected this conversation to go.

"Your father's note, of course." He had scarcely given her an opportunity to answer when he remembered the letter mentioned only a moment before. Looking down, he wondered at the simple parchment in his hands—at what it would contain—if the news would be anything that he wished to read. He felt certain that they would not be meeting this evening, or surely a note would have been unnecessary. Deciding that this line of thought was getting him nowhere, Mr. Thornton opened the letter.

Margaret watched him read the message for far longer than she knew to be necessary, thinking that he must have gotten through it several times.

"I am sorry that your mother's health is worsening," Mr. Thornton said solemnly. The note gave rise to more questions than answers. Little more was offered than a cancellation of this evening and some ambiguous news of Mrs. Hale's condition. It would seem to him that if her health was so poor that he could not visit, that Margaret would almost certainly be at home rather than sitting beside him.

"Thank you," Margaret said before standing, Mr. Thornton stood to join her. "I made these last night, I thought that you might enjoy them." Margaret handed him the basket, however upon reception, he placed his hand on hers.

"Is there anything that she needs? Anything that I could bring to her?" Mr. Thornton asked, not wishing for Margaret to leave as abruptly as she had come.

"No!" Margaret exclaimed far too hastily. The appraising eye of Mr. Thornton was trained upon her. "What did you think of the book, I mean, have you had time to read any of it?" Her attempt to change the subject was blundering at best, Margaret cringed at Mr. Thornton's tilted head and quizzical brow.

"I have read and have been looking forward to discussing it with you." There was something within him that wished to continue on this lighter vein, however, he could not help himself but to pursue where his conscience led him. "Miss Hale, I understand that there is something that you do not wish to share with me—I will respect that—just know that my offer still stands." With that, he was able to relax. "As we will not have an opportunity to discuss the book this evening, would you care to do so now?"

"Now?" Margaret repeated nervously.

"Only if you do not need to get back straight away," Mr. Thornton smiled uneasily, she had seemed much more inviting on their previous encounter and he did not know from where this newfound reticence stemmed. "It seems that I now have the evening clear to work on my books."

"Are you certain that you have the time?" He nodded causing Margaret to calm. This was what she truly wished of her day, was it not? An escape. Taking the basket from him, she placed it on his desk and removed two ginger biscuits. "I have been looking forward to discussing it with you as well." Margaret said as she crossed before him, handing a biscuit to him before taking the seat beside him once more. "It is quite good, I think."

"Thank you," Mr. Thornton was nearly as grateful for the refreshment as he was for the fact that she had thought to bring them for him. "The book is very good! I have just made it several chapters past Dantes' escape." They had not discussed how far they would read—therefore he knew not how what had been expected of him. He only knew that he had spent every available moment engulfed in the treasure that she had so considerately given to him. He had truly sought it as a refuge each evening.

"Oh, do not tell me what happens! I was up until all hours last night pouring over it, I could not put it down. It seemed that each chapter beckoned me to read its successor. I cannot have been far behind you, I stopped just after Faria's death," Margaret said, she was leaning toward him. "I am pleased to know that Edmond does escape!"

Margaret could hardly believe that Mr. Thornton had read further than she. She had formed a similar group in London—granted, it was largely comprised of ladies of a similar vein of thought as Edith—still, no one had ever come close to her in reading, making their discussions rather one-sided when they conducted their meetings. They of course generally considered their little gatherings more of a social club than a reading group. Margaret was beginning to believe that this would be a much different sort of experience.

"I cannot believe that you were able to stop at that point! I had to know if Dantes would escape, and how." Aside from Margaret's father, he had not had a discussion for purely intellectual or pleasurable purposes since his school days—and those had most certainly never been with the likes of one such as Margaret. Before continuing on that vein, Mr. Thornton delved into his fare. "You made these?" He asked after taking a bite of the treat that his guest had provided. Margaret nodded. "They are wonderful!" He meant it.

"Oh, believe me, my sleep was filled with daring escapes, I even awoke in a panic at one point because Edmond had been captured, how happy was I to find it to be just a dream!" Margaret said with more enthusiasm than he had ever seen from her. "I feel so connected to the characters—to Edmond, Mercedes and Faria. The injustice of Edmond's plight has plagued me so." Mr. Thornton enjoyed Margaret in a passion, she seemed to forget the normal structured limitations that she customarily followed. "The chapter ended just as they were binding Edmond's feet. I was so engrossed in the words, that when there was a knock at the door I nearly dropped my book in fright!"

"You had a visitor in the middle of the night?" Mr. Thornton asked.

"Did I say that is was night?" Margaret leaned forward to obtain her book from the basket.

"You did." Mr. Thornton replied.

"I must have been mistaken." Margaret continued quickly toying with the wrinkles in her skirt, "I could not help but worry for poor Mercedes, have you discovered what has become of her?" Mr. Thornton could sense something different in Margaret's behavior, it was unease—unease which did not seem to be derived from him. Margaret continued, "Last we left her she had threatened to throw herself off of a cliff should anything happen to Edmond." Margaret sighed, "And something surely happened to Edmond, did it not? In that horrible prison for fourteen years. I attempted to read until I learned of Mercedes' fate, but it was not to be."

"I thought that you did not wish for me to tell you anything that I had read and you had not." His light tone belied his heavy words. "No, I have read nothing more of Mercedes than you," he revealed with no further prompting.

"Thank you," Margaret blushed.

"What a shame it was that he was arrested fifteen minutes before they were to marry." Mr. Thornton had struggled with that reality from the moment in which he had first read it two nights previous. He had in fact had a dream that fate had finally smiled upon him allowing his affections to be returned. As he stood at the altar with his bride, a train tore through the sanctuary taking her with it. They were ripped apart, torn from the other, as the train disappeared into oblivion, he was left to wonder what had become of her and how he was to go on. Margaret's voice pulled him back into the moment, away from his absurd mental effusions.

"Better fifteen minutes before than fifteen minutes after, I would think," Margaret stated with self-surety

"How do you mean?" Of everything that he had read thus far—all of the punishment, all of the treachery, all of the heartache—the one thing that had left the greatest impression upon his mind was the fact that this man had worked up from nothing and achieved his greatest objective only to have his hopes dashed and then to find himself in the wake of greater peril than he had ever imagined.

"Well, Mercedes was destitute—forced to live on the kindness of others—being tied to a man who is a criminal would ruin her." Margaret spoke practically. She knew something of love, albeit little; and could say for certainty that it did not thrive in the midst of poverty, separation and derision.

"You don't consider loving the man to be tied to him?" There was an air of defense in Mr. Thornton's tone.

"Of course, she will always be connected to him in that manner, however, in a practical sense, it seems far better for them to remain unattached," Margaret stated calmly.

"Unattached!" Mr. Thornton exclaimed. He would hardly have considered himself to be a romantic, but discussing such a thing with a woman to whom—whether she chose to admit to it or even like it—he would be forever attached, was disheartening. "Do you think her attachment to him so insubstantial? Did she not say that she would rather die herself than see harm come to the man that she loved?" He attempted to steer himself from this tempest that he had found himself within.

"Mr. Thornton, I am not questioning her sincerity." Margaret could not understand the passion that Mercedes had evoked in Mr. Thornton. "I was merely attempting to look at the situation from a more pragmatic standpoint." Margaret lowered her head and smiled, "If they had married, Mercedes would have nothing—including the man she loved. I would hope that Edmond could in the very least satisfy himself knowing that she would not be destitute and thrown to wolves of society for public scorn. Had they married shortly before his arrest, how much heavier would his conscience be knowing that he had left a wife behind that would ever be bound to him—who he could do nothing for?"

There was a slight lull in the conversation as Mr. Thornton considered her words. Surely they contained some wisdom. "I had not intended to debate the timing of the marriage so much as the sentiments that accompanied it. I have thought long on it and cannot imagine what would be worse: love that is reciprocated, yet unable to subsist or a love that is unrequited." It was not until he saw the furious blush on Margaret's cheeks that he realized what he had said. She had opened this door and he rather preferred it to pretending that their past did not exist.

Margaret allowed her mind to retrace the conversation of Edmond and Mercedes and wondered if anything else that he had said had paralleled the reality in which they lived. "I cannot imagine either to be an agreeable fate." Margaret said quietly, allowing herself to look at him.

"No." Mr. Thornton stared back at her for too long a minute then shook his head and continued. "There was something that Dantes said just days before he was arrested," he paused in thought. "It went along the lines of people hurrying to be happy. That it is difficult to believe in happiness when you have suffered for a long time. That is not exactly it, may I see your book?" Margaret handed her copy to him.

"Was that just after they became engaged?" Attempting to remember that portion of the book, she looked over at him only to see that Mr. Thornton had only turned to the inside cover and had stopped to look at her sketch.

"Did you draw this?" Mr. Thornton asked. The illustration captivated him. He had heard her father allude to her talent for drawing, but this was simply lovely. She had completely captured Mercedes, perhaps added some allure that he had not seen in her before this moment. Either way, this was how she would appear in his mind from then on out.

"I did," Margaret admitted. "It is supposed to be Mercedes, though I was not able to make her quite as beautiful as she was in my mind."

"She is perfect," Mr. Thornton acknowledged, "You have an astounding ability, Miss Hale."

Before another word could be spoken, the office door—which had been previously only cracked—opened to reveal a very confused Mrs. Thornton with a basket in hand. As she entered the room, her eyes bounced between her son and the woman who sat beside him. The woman who had refused him.

"I have come to bring you some cold meat and cheese, as I had thought your plans were to go to Crampton this evening. I did not think that you would have time to eat." Her eyes were trained on her son, she would not have this discussion here, not with such an audience.

"Thank you, Mother." Mr. Thornton felt that he should offer some explanation. "I will not be going to the Hale's this evening. Miss Hale has just come to extend her regrets." Mrs. Thornton looked at Miss Hale for several long moments as if debating on whether or not to address her.

"I will leave you." Mrs. Thornton spoke at last. "Miss Hale, you are always welcome at the house." After extending one more pointed look to her son, Mrs. Thornton left the office.

"I should go," Margaret said while standing. She did not know why she had done things in this manner, moreover, why she felt so embarrassed by being discovered by Mrs. Thornton. Had she not decided that there was nothing wrong in her visiting his office? Had her father not sent her on this very errand? Why did she feel as though she had been caught in some unseemly act?

"Please, Miss Hale, do not feel the need to leave so soon." Mr. Thornton was fully aware that—despite the offhanded invitation—his mother was neither welcoming nor pleasant. "If you must go, then by all means; only do not on account of my mother." The silence that filled the whole of his office was uncomfortable. Margaret walked toward the basket that she had brought with her and gripped the edge of the desk with both hands. For a moment he thought to ask if she was alright, being presented with nothing but her back. When he finally moved forward to address her, she turned to face him.

"Do you wish for me to stay?" Margaret asked in a moment of boldness. The imploring look in Mr. Thornton's face was enough of an incentive to allow Margaret to set aside the disapproval in his mother's. Deciding that, were she to please a Thornton, he was the one whom she would always choose. "I will, then." Margaret paused before adding, "I do not think that your mother approves of me." The moment the words left her mouth she regretted them. The sentiment remained. There was not a moment in all of her acquaintance with Mr. Thornton's mother where she had felt anything akin to approval. The thought that she, perhaps, appeared to not approve of anyone was quickly banished as Margaret remembered Fanny Thornton's words regarding Ann Latimer at the exhibition; that moment was as clear to her now as Mrs. Thornton's look and sharp words.

"It is not that." Mr. Thornton said solemnly. "She is only attempting to protect me." The words seemed to slip out without his even being conscious of thinking them.

"Protect you from me?" Margaret laughed as though it was the most absurd thing that she had ever heard. The distressing look in his eye slaughtered her mirth. It was an instant before Margaret understood him completely. It appeared as though he was attempting to collect his thoughts in order to make some reply to cover his ill-chosen words. Margaret approached him—standing closer than was her wont—and placed her hand on his arm. "I did not know you then." Margaret's words were simple enough, though they carried with them an apology—an apology and hope.

Turning his head to the side and taking in her countenance out of the corners of his eyes, Mr. Thornton—in a manner quite opposite to his normal measured way of speaking—questioned her, "Do you know me now?"

How had this conversation changed so drastically? Margaret could hear her pulse drum loudly in her ears. There was not a trace of a thought of their mothers or Frederick or secrets. The weight of his question pressed upon her soundly. She knew that he was not merely wondering as to her opinion of their acquaintance—just as she knew what he was intending to read in her answer. Margaret answered him, "I am coming to know you. I-I am coming to understand how wrong I was in my judgments of you. I had thought you unfeeling and prejudicial—but those thoughts and feelings were less about you than they were about my preconceived notions of your kind-" At the sight of his raised eyebrows, Margaret quickly forged ahead. "This is not coming out as I had intended! I am not attempting to insult you, only-"

"I am not insulted." Mr. Thornton's calculated manner of speech returned once more.

"I am trying to know you—is what I am attempting to say." Margaret began to pull from him when his hand covered hers, halting her retreat.

"Is there anything that I may do to assist you; in your endeavor, that is?" Mr. Thornton asked. Margaret could feel the warmth of his palms. Even his incredible nearness now seemed to feel more comfortable than she ever could have imagined. Was there anything that he could do to help her know him? Looking into his eyes, she thought of their reading together, of his bringing things to her mother, his insistence upon helping her in the kitchen; she thought of the way that he looked at her in something more of a caress than a glance and how she was all but certain that his feelings remained constant, though he never seemed to pursue her any further than she was comfortable.

Gracing him with a genuine smile, she answered, "You are already doing it." Pleased with her response, he released her hand, feeling that he had pressed her enough for the moment. They both returned to the seats that they had previously employed and naturally returned to their reading as though no interruption had occurred. Much time was spent on discussing Faria, the Abbe. Though he did not say it, Mr. Thornton felt about the Abbe much as he did Margaret's father. Through his tender revelation, Margaret began to make the association as well. Much like Mr. Thornton, Edmond was, for all practical purposes, fatherless. A man had entered his world, granting an escape from the pressures of life while adding companionship and guidance. Margaret grinned thinking that the material difference was that her father certainly had no hidden treasure for Mr. Thornton to discover!

"What do you think has become of Mercedes?" Margaret asked—completely out of context—without knowing why this topic would not leave her mind. Mr. Thornton could not help but to smile.

"I thought that we had agreed to see wait and see the fate of Mercedes." There was a hint of jest in his tone. Margaret did not notice his attention being drawn to her illustration that was sitting just behind the basket.

"Oh, I suppose we had; but will you not speculate with me?" He could hardly turn down the invitation or accompanying smile. "You do not think that she threw herself to her death, do you?" Margaret could not account for the unease that these characters were causing her. Perhaps it was that Mr. Thornton, too, seemed to relate to them, or maybe it was the thought of Fred and the changes that had occurred in his absence; the pain that it had caused those that he had left behind. Where her brother was concerned, they knew that he was safe and even had means of communication; the same could not be said for Edmond. Even still, there was something in Edmond that always brought forth thoughts of the man sitting before her; something that she had often tried to take hold of and that remained ever elusive.

"I do not. In fact, I have a feeling that Mercedes and Edmond's story has only just begun." Mr. Thornton responded. It was then that Margaret noticed the long languid shadows creeping across the floor stemming from the two westward facing windows. It was a matter of seconds before Mr. Thornton understood the source of his guest's distraction. Though it did not seem as such, Margaret's visit had lasted several hours. Neither regretted it. Side by side in casual conversation, they walked down the stairs and out to Marlborough Street. With a heavy pause and penitent farewell, Margaret accepted his hand. Mr. Thornton thanked her for the company and asked that she send his best to her family. There he stood, on the street until Margaret was completely out of sight. He took in every last bit of her, as he knew not when he would see her again. With a sigh, he returned to his office where his eyes were immediately drawn to his desk, whereupon Margaret's book remained opened to the depiction of a dark haired beauty clothed in ethereal flowing garments, beckoning the man who held her heart to return.


	9. Chapter 8 - Grief and Comfort

A/N: I would first like to thank all of you for the incredible reviews on the last chapter. I try to respond to all of them that I can, but if you left a guest review or your inbox is not set up to receive messages, THANK YOU! I have put a lot of love into this story and cannot tell you how it warms my heart that you are enjoying it. Kelly, thank you so much for your amazing edits!

**The Sum of All Wisdom**

"_The sum of all human wisdom will be contained in these two words: Wait and Hope." _

_Alexander Dumas – The Count of Monte Cristo_

**Chap 8 – Grief and Comfort**

Time slipped by and Margaret hardly noticed. Days and nights, hours and minutes; it stood still and yet passed far too quickly—all of it by her mother's side. She watched the good doctor show himself out, knowing that the end was upon them—the end of her mother's agony, yes, but also of their fragmented little family. The tears that pricked her eyes caused Margaret to bite the inside of her cheek in an effort to rechannel her pain. Determined that her mother's last moments on this earth were going to be spent surrounded in love, not grief, Margaret set her heart aside and called her father and brother to join her at the bedside.

"Mother, do you remember our autumns in Helstone?" Margaret asked in an unsteady voice. Her mother's half-opened eyes trained on her. "I loved the day before Michaelmas," her voice caught for only an instant, "-when we would spend every daylight hour picking every blackberry in the New Forest." It took everything in her to formulate these simple sentences. Margaret felt a hand on her shoulder and was consoled to see the ever-constant Dixon standing behind her; the support urged her further. "There would be more pies and tarts and fresh fruit than we could ever eat and you always sent Dixon with me to deliver them to the people in the village. Oh, how I missed blackberries fresh from the vine when I was in London!" She could not help but miss them now, as well, though something kept her from saying as much aloud.

Fred began to cry. Margaret knew that he could not help himself; he had been kept away from home so long, only to return to bid his mother farewell forever. It was too much. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Margaret forged ahead. "-And Fred," her words pulled his attention, though she knew not what to do to keep it from turning inward once more. She strained to find a more engaging topic, something happier, some memory that he could expand upon. She could not do this alone. It was then that her eyes caught the rough wood figurines in the corner of her parents' room. "Do you remember when you took up wood carving?" Margaret watched as her mother closed her eyes languidly before turning them to Frederick.

"Yes." He managed to say before wiping his nose on his handkerchief. "I tried to make Noah's Ark—spent weeks on it." Margaret could not help but to stare at the five irregular animals—none in pairs—that she had never been allowed to touch and had always held a place of honor on a shelf in her parents' bedroom alongside a silver hair comb and crystal trinket box. When her attention returned, she watched her mother squeezing her brother's hand, causing his tears to burst forth once more.

Margaret watched a tear journey its way down her mother's cheek and willed herself to contain her own. With a look around the room—her brother sobbing, her father silent—she thought how easy it would be to take up either occupation. Almost resolving to do so, Margaret remembered words that Mr. Thornton had spoken to her; she could not recall if it was days or weeks past. The circumstances surrounding the comment eluded her weary mind, though she knew that they had been walking together and that he assured her that she was strong—one of the strongest women that he knew, if she remembered accurately. She certainly did not feel it now; she supposed that strength was relative to one's situation, and this situation was beyond her imagining.

Resolving in that moment to be her family's anchor, Margaret took a deep breath and determined to pull her family from their anticipative grief. It was not that she was opposed to grieving, only that she loved her mother, and where Margaret loved, she gave her whole heart. She could not help but lament that her mother had felt so little joy, had so rarely been surrounded by those who she truly cared for, had so often herself been stricken with sorrow, that Margaret felt it her duty to give her whatever small sliver of gladness was left for her in this world.

Swallowing past a lump that she had never before noticed in her throat, Margaret took her brother's hand. He seemed to understand her plaintive look and attempted to dry his eyes. She could think of fewer topics lighter than wood carvings, but needed something to engage her brother's interest, something to pull him to the present—to their living, breathing mother.

Unable to attest to why, Margaret remembered the game of conkers. Not just the sport in general, but a particular instance in which they—Frederick and Margaret—should not have been taking part in the game. When she asked Fred if he recalled playing conkers in church, some semblance of a smile graced his lips.

"I thought that we would be in trouble for sure," Fred said, looking at their father. "-when that horse chestnut got loose and struck Lady Davenport on the head." Mr. Hale turned to his son; though there was little delight in his voice, his eyes were filled with fatherly devotion.

"You would likely have paid the piper had Lady Davenport had any idea of the source of the attack," Richard Hale said. "She found me after services and told me that it was time to change her ways, as she was convinced that Christ himself had given her a sound lashing for not paying attention during the sermon." Mrs. Hale smiled; it was fleeting, but a smile nonetheless.

They continued in this vein for hours—telling stories of their childhood antics and adventures in London and Spain. Dixon happily joined in as well. As the span between breaths increased, Mr. Hale became more and more distant. Fred was in the middle of telling how he met Dolores Barbour when Mrs. Hale emitted a loud ragged breath, bringing the levity to a sudden halt.

Margaret and Frederick watched as their father fell to his knees at the side of the bed and took one of his wife's hands in his own. "Oh, Maria." Anguish saturated his words. Margaret held her brother, who was making no effort to conceal his own heartache. "We have built a beautiful life together, you and I. We grew old and I do not think that I ever noticed. I never told you—never—how fortunate I was that you chose me." Margaret watched her mother closely as her father poured out his heart. "You were so lovely. You _are_ so lovely." He attempted to speak several times before any sound could be heard. "The day that you gave me our son, I thought that I could not be happier; then came Margaret and I wanted for little else. I was always content enough." He could not keep his composure. Margaret watched her mother's chest rise and fall, once, twice more. "-and I found myself comfortable enough to not appraise your level of discomfiture and for that," He held both of her hands now and lay his head down upon them. "For that, I am so sorry, Maria, I am so sorry." Margaret's heart beat drummed in her ears as she watched for the next sharp intake of breath, the next shift of the bedclothes, the next sound, gasp, the smallest of motions—anything. She waited in vain. Margaret clinched her brother more tightly. Her father continued, "So, so sorry, my love!"

It was no small feat to convince her brother to take to his bed. No true sleep had been found in this house for days. It was not only exhaustion; Frederick's cries rang out so loudly that Dixon was certain that the neighbors would hear him through the thin walls. Margaret knew that it was left to her to ease him to sleep. Sitting on the side of her little bed beside her older brother, she spoke to him of trivialities, of nature and walks, he told her of the salt-filled air and the feeling of solid ground beneath his feet after a long leg at sea. Every so often the conversation would break into his tears, causing Margaret to cradle his head in her lap and stroke his hair. There were so many points where she felt like breaking down as well, though she knew that if she were to start, that she would be unable to stop. After what was surely hours, Margaret left her sleeping brother in her room and went in search of her father. As she had half-expected, he was sound asleep in his favorite chair in his bookroom. The spectacles on the side table and dampened handkerchief in his hand threatened to disarm Margaret's carefully guarded composure. Covering him with a small blanket and kissing his forehead, Margaret decided that she needed a dose of fresh air.

She passed the room where her mother remained and walked in to see Dixon kneeling at the side of the bed. Margaret could not help but notice that her mother was in a fresh gown with a single white flower clasped in her pale hands; she could not imagine where Dixon had found the flower. Taking a seat beside the servant that she had known her entire life, Margaret began to tell her how much she was loved and trusted. Dixon cried into her apron, gripping Margaret's hand. After a few moments of consolation, Margaret convinced Dixon that it would be best for her to get some sleep. Dixon embraced Margaret and retreated below stairs without hesitation.

Finally alone, Margaret could not escape fast enough. She felt exhausted, trapped—suffocated by the heavy layer of death and remorse that filled the house, permeating the walls. She hastily decided that she must go somewhere where she could breathe, where she could think. Thinking only enough to grab her overcoat, Margaret was out of the house.

Having walked over half of an hour, she finally realized how cold it was outside and regretted not wearing her bonnet or gloves. There was no thought for propriety on such a day—only for pain and consolation and how she had a bounty of the first and not a morsel of the second.

Mrs. Thornton could not suppress some unprecedented feeling of unease that had pervaded her these last two days. She had always thought herself a woman of impeccable judgment and yet, nothing was as it seemed with the Hale family—of the Hale family as they concerned her son, in particular; for she had no interest in them where John was not involved.

It was early afternoon and he had worked through the mid-day meal. This was not an uncommon occurrence; in fact, after breakfast, Mrs. Thornton had instructed Cook to prepare a basket for the Master for late afternoon. With the basket in hand, Mrs. Thornton walked through the mill yard. She could not keep her brow from creasing or her eyes from hardening as she watched the men, women and children—most of whom, the very same that had turned out—hard at work as though nothing had changed. Upon making it up the stairs, she knocked on her son's door and waited until it was opened before entering—a new habit, two days in the making.

There had been little time to talk and in the moments that she had available, she knew not where to begin. After setting the basket on the oversized desk, Mrs. Thornton unpacked the contents for her son. Despite the stress that he was obviously under, he was polite and grateful that she took such good care of him—especially when his comfort was the last thing on his mind. They briefly discussed sending the Irish back on the late train the following evening, then touched on orders, wages and income—none of the news being overly optimistic. Mr. Thornton had no doubt that, should something ever happen to him, his mother would have no trouble in assuming his position. As he finished eating, he noticed that she seemed to linger.

"Is there something on your mind, mother?" Mr. Thornton asked with genuine concern.

"There is, actually," Mrs. Thornton responded. "I have been thinking about Miss Hale." She appraised her son's reaction with raised eyebrows.

"What have you been thinking about Miss Hale, Mother?" John said with marble features.

"She was here, John," Mrs. Thornton stated factually. "Here, in your office, alone with you. I would think that a lady as fine-" John interrupted before she could finish, knowing where this line of conversation was treading.

"Mother, she came to bring me a note from her father. Her mother was unwell. I talked her into staying." He was glad of it, too.

"I am only saying that such behavior will cause tongues to wag." Mrs. Thornton cautioned. "She should have come to the house."

"If she had gone to the house, you would have delivered the letter and I surely would have gone to the Hale's myself." The last words trailed off as his mind wandered. She had not gone to the house, surely to avoid encountering his mother, but also, it seemed, because she did not want him at her home. He could not help but remember her discomfiture when he mentioned visiting her father. Why would the Hales wish for his absence? Mr. Hale could certainly use the distraction, could he not? His thoughts were disrupted by his mother's words. He asked her to repeat them.

"I was only saying that she did seem comfortable here." Mrs. Thornton stood when the mail was brought in and laid on Thornton's desk. She knew that her son felt as he did for a reason—though the Lord only knew why—and she was determined to respect his choices. "I know that we have disagreed over your attachment to her." He began to speak, but Mrs. Thornton held up her hand and continued, "-but I will do my best not to see the worst in her."

"Thank you, Mother." He went to his mother and kissed her forehead, thanking her for the meal and bidding her good evening. From most any other person he knew, his mother's words would have come across as backhanded; from her, he had no doubt that she not only meant them kindly, but had put much thought into them.

The return address on the top letter caught Mr. Thornton's attention and all of his focus trained on it and its possible contents. As he slid his hand beneath the seal, Mr. Thornton's mind went reeling. The letter was from John Sturgin, an investor, a gentleman, a complete stranger, actually. As much as he had told himself not to hope for a favorable outcome, Mr. Thornton could not help but be a little anxious. He unfolded the single sheet of paper, read the rather short missive twice over, tossed it onto his desk, grabbed his hat and greatcoat and left the mill.

The sun was on the verge of setting when Mr. Thornton took note of his surroundings. He had thought to walk to deliberate over his circumstances, though found his walk had the perhaps more advantageous effect of clearing his mind. He rarely paid attention to the bit of nature that Milton had to offer—nature being a generous word for the area that lay beyond the buildings and paved streets of Milton. There were trees and grass and sky, but none in abundance and all tainted by the smoke that—like it or not—was merely a consequence of their means of livelihood.

While wondering what life would be like living in a place with a more varied landscape, Mr. Thornton turned, deciding to return to home and face what lay ahead. It was then that he saw her. Margaret Hale. She was out in a light coat, no bonnet or gloves, looking particularly lost. Up to the task of finding her, Mr. Thornton closed the ten or so yards that lie between them with no little determination.

"Miss Hale," Mr. Thornton said when he was close enough to speak in his normal tone and be heard. She turned to him, though did not seem at all surprised by his presence. "What brings you out so late in the evening?" Mr. Thornton did not mention her missing outerwear though could not peel his eyes from her wind-chapped fingers.

Margaret stared up at him wondering if he was actually before her, as he certainly did not belong there. She did not realize how late it had become and was shocked to see only a sliver of the sun left above the horizon.

"Are you alright?" Mr. Thornton asked, genuinely concerned.

Margaret cleared her throat; it felt like ages since she had last spoken. "No, I am not." Her lips were quivering. "But, I will be," she replied, unsure of who she was trying to comfort with her meager words. "May I walk with you?"

"Of course!" Mr. Thornton offered his arm, not taking his eyes from her downcast face. They were walking not a minute before he continued, "Would you allow me to share in your sorrows?"

They stopped, Margaret freed her arm from his and wrapped hers tightly about herself. She had hoped that he would just know, that she would not have to say the words aloud. She had left the house that afternoon hoping to find some consolation in the environs, a place to cry, to release everything that she held so close to her heart—that place was yet to be found.

Mr. Thornton read the plea in her eye, the desperation, the pain. He knew that look. He knew that sorrow. "Your Mother?" He asked.

It was all that needed to be spoken. Margaret nodded, a heavy sigh escaped her bosom and tears—not the less painful because they were silent—ran down her cheeks. Unable to watch without acting, Mr. Thornton stood a little closer, one hand resting protectively on her elbow the other pushing an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "Miss Hale, I am so very sorry. Please, let me see you home."

The words were too similar to the apology of her father, which was still ringing through her ears, causing her to speak louder than was her wont. "I am not ready to return home." Margaret vehemently shook her head as she spoke.

"Might I help you?" On those words, Margaret turned her tear stained to his. Before this moment, before he stood facing her, she knew not what she had wanted. Before she knew what she was about, she muttered 'Forgive me;' and with neither knowing exactly how they came to be so, Margaret's cheek was against his chest, her fingers pressing into his back beneath his greatcoat and his arms wrapped possessively around her shivering form. As his lips pressed her name into her hair, they learned what it felt like to be truly held.

In twilight they stood, in the cold wilds of the north; Margaret Hale needing comfort and John Thornton anxious to give her that and so much more. They stood alone, silently, unknowingly feeding the need of the other. There was no one there to witness the embrace, therefore this moment meant nothing to anyone—save two. To those two, that moment was all that there was.

Tears flowed freely down Mr. Thornton's waistcoat—saturating the uncovered white cloth below—as something in this strange, welcoming situation lent itself to solace. Margaret poured out her wordless sorrows over her loss. Tears were shed over a life lived half in regret, for her brother who would have to leave before week's end and for the two who remained, left behind to pick up the pieces—indeed, for herself! Yes, Margaret, for the first time, allowed her own pain and heartache and disappointment to surface. Unsurprisingly, after it began, it was not quick in abating. She felt safe, she knew that she was standing in a place without judgment with a man she somehow knew would give her the world if she would but ask. This was all that she needed. She clung to him; she knew that he was her strength in that moment. She need not hold the world on her shoulders when there was one so capable and willing to share the burden.

Mr. Thornton could see the waxing moon in the sky in a near perfect circle when he felt Margaret's arms loosen their grip. He knew not what to expect, yet was surprised to see her nearly content expression shining up at him in the moonlight.

"Thank you," Margaret whispered before taking his arm. They began to walk. After composing herself enough to trust in her voice, Margaret made an attempt to regain some normalcy. "How has your day been?" Mr. Thornton's step faltered at her question. He could not imagine talking about something as menial as his day at such a moment. They had never been a pair for trifling matters, therefore he assured himself that Margaret must be either genuinely concerned or in need of distraction. He would be as forthright as ever.

"It has not been a good day at the mill, in truth." Margaret squeezed his arm; if she could offer a fraction of the compassion that he had just allowed her, she would be honored to do so. "I have been disappointed by an investor that I frankly never expected would come through, though disappointed I was." Mr. Thornton placed his free hand over hers. He had offered her his gloves, but she refused—nevertheless, he would not allow her to freeze.

"You know that if you are ever in need of an investor, all you need to do is take me on as your partner and send word to Lord Goodwin!" Margaret offered what could not quite be heard as a laugh, but then, she had just lost her mother. Mr. Thornton did not respond right away. The interim gave Margaret too much time to think, to second guess her previous statement. "I am sorry, Mr. Thornton, I did not mean to make light of your business—or meddle in it. I only meant-"

"I understand." His tone was all that was gentle. "That turned out to be a good day, did it not?" If only she knew how badly he wished her to join him—not in his mill, but in his life. How he wished that he could take her home and ease her heartache.

"It did." Margaret replied simply. They spoke in subdued tones, basking in rays of easy companionship. She could not believe how far they had come in so short a time. They continued to walk, it was not until they came upon Crampton Crescent that Margaret grasped that she was being escorted home. "I do not think that Papa is ready for visitors." She said suddenly, halting her steps.

Mr. Thornton stopped accordingly and appraised her. There was an edge to her voice that suggested discomfort and he wished more than anything that he could take it from her. "I am only seeing you safely home. It is very late." They commenced walking and stopped just before the Hale's front door. Margaret looked around at the nearly cleared street; the only time that it was not bustling was when it was too dark for the peddlers to sell their goods. The idea of it filling back up, going on the same as it always had, when morning came was nearly too much for Margaret to bear. She attempted to push the thought from her mind.

"Miss Hale," he faced her, rubbing her cold hands between his own. "Please ask your father to call on me if you are in need of anything." He caught her eye and continued in that quiet, deliberate manner that was all his own. "_You_ call on me if you need anything."

Margaret nodded, thinking of the merits of wrapping herself about him once more. If they had been far from prying eyes—from the potential danger that lurking too long before her home threatened with Frederick within—she was certain that she would. Instead she stood back from him and, in an overtly familiar gesture, smoothed the front of his dress coat with both hands attempting to remove any signs of dishevelment that she imagined herself to have left. She spoke, her attention not wavering from her task, "Thank you. Thank you for finding me."

"Margaret." Her hands were stayed by his larger ones, causing her to look up at him. She could feel his warmth, his strength, the steady pounding of his heart. "I will always find you, if you'll but let me."

He watched Margaret take a staggered breath and realized that there he was, pressing her again—in the midst of her desperation, no less. For the first time that evening he began to appreciate how weary she appeared. Her eyes, which he had always seen as soft and filled with energy, did not hold their usual brilliance. "You have not been sleeping?"

Margaret could not tell if he was asking or stating it as a foregone conclusion; either way, she had not. "It has been a demanding few days," she said plainly.

"Yes," Mr. Thornton replied thoughtfully, making no motion to leave. "I suppose you should go in." Margaret stood before him, a genuine smile began to grace her face. The smile soon grew to something like laughter. Mr. Thornton tilted his head in a questioning gesture.

"Your words and your hands seem to be in discordance, Mr. Thornton." Margaret said, watching him remove her hands along with his own and very reluctantly releasing them, as though he were giving a gift that he would rather keep for himself.

"Good night, Mr. Thornton—and thank you, once more." Margaret said as she took the first step to the door.

"Goodnight, Margaret." He thought for an instant that he should not speak to her so informally, but the instant passed and he was no worse for wear. "I will see you soon?"

"Soon." Margaret repeated before making her way to the door. With little more than a wave and slight bow of her head, she disappeared from his sight once more. He walked home on the empty streets through Crampton Crescent to Marlborough Street attempting to draft a letter in his mind to his dear friend and teacher. It took the full two miles to compose the simple missive, as he could not help but to reminisce about the feeling of Margaret's arms wrapped tightly around him. Though they had been around him once before, he now understood that the sentiment behind them—the feelings that Margaret held for him—was of a very different nature.


	10. Chapter 9 - Sever

**A/N:**Thank you all _a thousand times over_ for not giving up on this story. This chapter has given me about eight kinds of agony…

**The Sum of All Wisdom**

"_The sum of all human wisdom will be contained in these two words: Wait and Hope." _

_Alexander Dumas – The Count of Monte Cristo_

**Chap 9 – Sever**

The sunlight streaming through the uncovered circular window of the sloping attic took little pity upon Margaret and eventually caused her to rise and face the day that lay ahead. Creeping into her room, so as not to wake her slumbering brother, she gathered the clothing that she needed for the day and eased the door closed behind her.

When she finally made it below stairs, Margaret was surprised to be greeted with a veritable feast. Though hunger was the furthest thing from her mind, the gesture was enough to steal her breath. She allowed her eyes to take in the offerings that overwhelmed the quaint dining table; cold meats and cheeses, a basket of fruit, a tureen of what appeared to be a hearty stew and several loaves of fresh bread. Each of these things were a generous offering in themselves—together it seemed to be too much, too thoughtful. Approaching the gift, Margaret was astounded by the overt act of generosity through the physical expression of sympathy that was spread before her. It was not until she scrutinized the basket of fruit that she felt a clinch in her chest and a prick in her eyes. To most, it would seem merely an ordinary assortment, but Margaret knew better—pears, peaches, cherries and plums—she knew in an instant who they were from and that the variety was no accident; he had bought them for her once before. Tucked between two delicate peach blossoms lay a note. Margaret brought the blossoms to her cheek as her thumb roughly traced the broad strokes that made up her father's name. Looking around, she wondered how it had arrived and felt her body tense as it had since her brother's arrival. With Fred sleeping soundly in her bed, Margaret decided that she need not waste mental energy on something that bear no matter. The food was here, Fred was safe.

Though she had no desire to eat, she had no intention of allowing her father and brother the same option and began preparing a hearty offering of bread, meat and cheese. With a plate all but arranged, Margaret's knife was stayed by the clang of the front door swinging open with such haste and inelegance that she worried a moment for the safety of those above stairs. Relief—short lived as it was to be—flooded Margaret when she saw that the intruder was none but Dixon, with an empty basket in hand and an unmistakable flush to her face.

Once Dixon was settled with a cup of tea, she began to explain her morning encounter to Margaret.

"You see, I left this morning worrying something awful over the Master. All through the missus illness he did little but hide all day and all night in that book room of his but not no longer. All this morning I heard him sitting at the bedside talking to her—talking to her like she was alive! I listened at the door worried that he had had a stroke with grief, but decided that it weren't my place and took to town." Dixon looked down at her hands as they twisted Margaret's handkerchief into an unrecognizable state.

"You see, Miss, that is not even the bad news," Dixon looked away before she could continue. "While in town, I saw a Southampton man—such a rare sight as I've ever seen, and if it weren't for the man that he was, it would have almost made me homesick."

"Who did you see?" Margaret asked, her stomach turning over itself.

"Well, it was young Leonards, he was the draper's son, as great a scamp who ever lived! Went to sea around the same time as Master Frederick," Dixon continued.

"Did he recognize you, Dixon?" Margaret's voice held no small amount of anxiety.

"That _is_ the worst of it! He would not have known me if I had not called for him first. I don't know what got into me, only that I have not seen a man from home and I said it before I could think." Dixon's features hardened and she continued, "He went on about having a fiancé that works in one of them big houses in Milton and then began asking about Master Frederick, remembering that I worked for your family. He was so bold as to suggest that he would share any profits if we were to turn Master Frederick in together!"

"But you didn't tell him where we lived—anything about Fred?" Margaret asked in a voice she hardly recognized.

"Not at all, Miss!" Dixon all but swore. "He never had the decency to ask where I were staying, and I certainly wouldn't tell the likes of him! It is only that I worry."

"You are right to worry, Dixon. I felt so anonymous before, so unnoticed that I was certain that no one knew of Fred or could make any sort of connection between us." Margaret stood and paced in a thoughtful frenzy. "I must tell Frederick. Father must know as well."

Within an hour, the remainder of the Hale family and Dixon sat in the mismatched chairs in study of the Crampton house. Margaret explained what Dixon had experienced only that morning with near constant interruptions from Dixon embellishing the tale or lamenting her actions therein. The faces that surrounded Margaret were grim, very grim indeed! No one too quick to speak.

"Frederick," Mr. Hale began, continuing only when he was certain that he had his son's attention. "You will leave tonight. It is not safe for you to stay. If this Leonards knows of you, there may be others."

"But how am I to go so quickly? I had hoped to at least stay for the funeral." Frederick huffed at the injustice of it all. "I have half a mind to stand up to this _Leonards_," he spat the name, "A worse sailor never boarded a ship—a worse man either! Oh, what he would do if he knew that I were this close to him. He wouldn't think twice about trading my life for the hundred pounds that they think I'm worth."

"Stop!" Margaret said. "Please, I cannot bear to think of it." The idea of her brother being traded for any sum was too much for Margaret. "Fred, do you not think that you could try to clear your name? You have as much as said that you wish to marry, would it not be better to start your new life without the old hanging over your head?" Margaret pleaded. "I have already written Henry Lennox, we only need to get you to London. I am sure that he will meet with you—he is only not expecting you so soon."

"I think it is a good idea," Mr. Hale said, "but we must get Frederick out of here."

Silence consumed them as the clock continued its unforgiving trudge toward the noon hour. Margaret's time was spent in heavy contemplation. Filled with trepidation over the unknown that stretched out before her, she forced herself to concentrate on how they would manage to get her brother to London and then safely back to Spain undetected. There was an evening train at Outwood—the smaller station which would be far less occupied than the central station, therefore offering more security. The longer she thought on it, the stronger she felt that there was another, more favorable option: Mr. Thornton. She could almost hear Mr. Thornton's deep languid tones expounding upon his sense of loyalty. He had told her—in this very room—that there would never be any reason that could make him turn from those he loved. Without much thought as to why or how, Margaret realized that she considered herself to fall within that umbrella of refuge of which he was speaking. With a quiet clearing of her throat, Margaret delivered her proposition to her father and brother.

"I think that the safest course of action may be for us to request assistance." Margaret began somewhat shakily. "I saw Mr. Thornton yesterday evening and he assured me that if we needed anything, anything at all, he would help." She took in her father's raised brow and her brother's wide eyes for a moment. "It was not the first time that he made such an offer. I am certain that he means it. He is a manufacturer—a man accustomed to moving goods and people—surely he would know a safe route and could have you out of town without so much as raising an eyebrow." Margaret began to feel more confident in her idea. "He has his own carriage and is so highly respected in the community that nothing would seem at all amiss." When Margaret finished with her impromptu plan, she was met with a reaction that was far from what she had hoped to expect.

"You saw him yesterday?" Her father asked with some urgency. "Did you speak to Mr. Thornton about any of this, about Frederick?"

"No, Papa. Mr. Thornton knows nothing of Fred," Margaret said. She was taken aback by her father's iron tone and ill-concealed disapproval.

"My dear, Mr. Thornton is a powerful mill owner, a Magistrate-"

"A Magistrate!" Frederick stood, interrupting his father's speech. "Margaret, do you wish to see me hanged?" Margaret gasped at her brother's suggestion, tears springing to her eyes.

"Of course not. How could you ask such a thing of me?" Margaret pulled herself up straight in her chair, as her only alternative was to shrivel—Margaret was not one to cower. "I only know that Mr. Thornton possesses the authority to get you out of town safely. I am positive that if we ask him, he will help; you see, we have become rather close." Margaret could not help the blush from staining her cheeks.

"You have become _close_, have you?" Her brother continued, resistance written upon every feature. "I do not like the idea of a magistrate being involved in this in any way. What if he is not as sweet on you a as you fancy him to be, and he turns me over to the authorities—Blazes, Margaret, he _is_ the authorities!"

"Fred, that is not-"

"Frederick," Unable to allow his children to squabble over something so serious, Mr. Hale intervened. He aimed his words gently toward his daughter. "I too believe that John would do anything for us—anything for you in particular, my dear—but, the question is, are you willing to ask it of him?"

Margaret looked at her father for a moment. She had expected further opposition to her plan and her father's response did not leave her with a ready response.

"For Frederick, I am willing to ask anything." Margaret said, receiving a slight smile from her brother. She would do whatever it took to protect the men she loved. "I can humble myself before Mr. Thornton."

"You are misunderstanding me, child. I do not mean, 'are you willing to do so,' I am asking if you are prepared to place Mr. Thornton in danger in order to ask for his assistance." Her father continued gently.

"He would be in no more danger than I would, surely." Margaret said, not fully understanding her father's implications. It is almost certain that a man of Mr. Thornton's size and intimidating nature would be far safer in this venture than a young woman such as herself.

"Margaret, you cannot be so naïve," Mr. Hale responded carefully. "If you ask Mr. Thornton and he is discovered assisting Frederick—a fugitive of the law—he could easily lose his standing, his position or worse yet, face criminal charges. Heaven knows what crimes the law would lay upon a magistrate for dereliction of duty!" Mr. Hale removed his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose before replacing them. "You are right, my dearest, he would do this for you." Mr. Hale sighed, after these past weeks he had little doubt in his mind that John Thornton would do anything to please his daughter. "John is a man of the law, Margaret, he has sworn to uphold it. Are you willing to ask him to risk his integrity?"

Margaret's heart seemed to be caught in her throat. She attempted to somehow sort through the web of thoughts that pervaded her mind.

"I had not thought of it quite like that." Her words drifted quietly through the room. Feeling horribly unsettled, Margaret began to understand what her father was saying. If she were to ask his help, she would be asking so much more than she had initially thought. It was not a question of whether he would agree to it. Margaret knew full well that John Thornton would do anything for her, even this—especially this! The longer she thought on it, the more she felt certain that the greater her request of him, the more satisfied he would feel in fulfilling it. She had no actual reason to feel that way, but she did despite herself. Yes, Margaret was certain that he would be willing to take the risk, the true question remained: _was she?_

The harsh afternoon sun reflected brilliantly on the pavement as Mr. Thornton made his way through the mill doors to those of his home. As he approached the dining room he was surprised to see his sister in conversation with their mother. Fanny talking was nothing of note—quite the opposite, actually—it was the act of verbal exchange which caught him off guard. Fanny generally prattled on expecting nothing more than the occasional utterance to encourage her to forge ahead. This was not one such occasion. Their mother was responding, Fanny even seemed to attend to her responses, it all seemed rather odd. He had yet to make himself known and thought nothing of it until he heard the words _engagement _and _Watson. _It seemed to Mr. Thornton that sometime—perhaps while his mind was filled first with survival, then with maintaining his successes—he managed to miss that his younger sister had blossomed into a young woman.

"I hope that I am not interrupting," he said as he entered the room. "Mother, Fanny, do not expect me back until late. There is no need to wait up." The tight corners of his mother's lips told him that there was little chance of that happening.

"Are you off to the station with the Irish, then?" Mrs. Thornton asked.

"I am. Were you able to send that basket to the Hale's this morning, mother?" He had wished to take it himself, but Margaret had seemed bent on him keeping his distance, despite the intimacy of the previous evening. He decided to respect her wishes.

"Of course, John!" She exclaimed as though she would never dream of dismissing a request that he made personally. "I had cook prepare a few things to add to the offerings."

"How is Margaret Hale, John?" Fanny asked, causing her all eyes in the room upon her. Mr. Thornton could not help but be shaken by his sister's question. He did not know where the concern stemmed. "It is only that I can imagine what she is going through."

"She was as well as could be expected yesterday. Thank you, Fanny." Her brother emitted a sorrowful sigh. He often forgot that those hardships that he faced were not faced by him alone. He watched as Fanny's sullen expression transformed.

"Perhaps I shall invite her over for a little concert!" Fanny exclaimed. "Miss Latimer would perform as well, she is very accomplished. Goodness knows that poor Miss Hale has been exposed to little enough culture in Crampton." A low chuckle escaped Mr. Thornton's chest and he was comforted to once more recognize the girl before him. The fact that _Crampton_ was a mere two miles from the mill and nearly equidistance to town-proper, seemed to have escaped Fanny's notice.

With a kiss on both of their cheeks, Mr. Thornton bid his little family good night, took his hat and great coat and made his way to collect his Irishmen.

Richard Hale watched his children disappear into the distant horizon through a tear-blurred haze and bitterly wondered if this shrinking glimpse would be the last that his weary eyes would ever hold of his boy.

Margaret and Frederick walked arm and arm in silence, neither knowing what to say to comfort the other—perhaps both knowing that there was no comfort to be had on such a night. When the station came into view Frederick checked the time to find that they had but fifteen minutes before his departure. Though there were few enough people in the station house, Margaret felt more comfortable in the security of a shaded brick alcove.

"I wish that you did not have to go, Fred." Margaret felt as though she were only now coming to know her brother and could not reconcile herself to the uncertainty that lay before them.

"I will miss you, little one, you may count upon it!" He tapped her nose with his gloved hand. "You know, had I not come under such circumstances, I could have almost enjoyed this trip—stealing away in the night, the forbidden voyage and all." What could almost be a strained chuckle resonated from deep within him. Margaret could see the effort that he made to hold himself together as he took her narrow shoulders in his hands. "I wish that you would come with me."

Wiping tears from her eyes, Margaret pushed the thought from her mind. Before they left home, Frederick had asked the same of their father—if they would leave London and come to live with him in Spain. He refused, becoming more passionate than Margaret had seen him in some time. The sentiment was the same as far as Margaret was concerned. Something about Milton truly felt like home and she could not bear the thought of leaving her mother. She did not wish to discuss it again, not now. "I have so enjoyed seeing you as well." With a knowing grin, Margaret continued, "You always were one to prefer that which was forbidden, though. Have you not, Fred?" Margaret managed.

"Whatever do you mean?" She could not tell if he was teasing or truly offended—the last thing that Margaret wanted on such an evening was to upset one of the few people in this world who actually cared for her.

"Do you remember the apples when we were children? David Cartwright told you that forbidden fruit was the sweetest and—although we had plenty of trees of our own—off you went-a-robbing. I suppose that you have not changed your sentiments so much since then." Her tone was much too serious to reflect the lightness in which she meant the words, though her brother did not seem to be bothered by the memory.

"Well, perhaps not," he said with a ghost of a smile. "But I will have you know that stolen fruit is, in fact sweeter. Davie and I tested it out."

"Fred!" Margaret laughed and her brother pulled her into his embrace.

"Forbidden or otherwise, I would not have missed this for anything." He whispered into her ear. "You did right by writing me, Margaret. I-" he pulled back far enough to see her eyes, "I am so proud of you, of the woman you have become." Frederick was not given an opportunity to hear his sister's reply; instead, his ears were met with a hint of a gasp and on instinct, he pulled her closer and turned to see what had captured his sister's attention. The object on which Margaret was set on happened to be no object at all but a man—a rather tall, dark, unpleasant sort of fellow, so Frederick thought.

"Goodness what a scowl that man has, Margaret. Do you know him?" Margaret did not answer right away, as her eyes seemed to be locked with the dark orbs that managed to inadvertently consume the entirety of the platform. It was not until after the gaze was broken, until after the man turned his penetrating stare onto Frederick and then disappeared from sight behind the outer station wall that Margaret responded.

"That was Mr. Thornton, Fred." Margaret did not understand what had just occurred between the two of them, but she knew that it was not in accord with the familiarity—and yes, intimacy!—to which she had only recently grown accustomed. When she caught a glimpse of him, she had hoped that he would not be able to recognize her, as she had managed to tuck Frederick and herself into a recess and their faces had almost certainly been shielded from the light. After seeing his features, seeing his hard eyes upon herself and her brother, there was no question in her mind that that had not been the case. Mr. Thornton had obviously recognized her and disapproved of what he saw.

"That was your Mr. Thornton, Margaret?" Frederick made no move to disguise his astonishment.

"He is hardly _my Mr. Thornton, _Fred." Margaret felt as though a vice were tightening about her throat, her stomach upended and she wanted nothing more than to watch Fred board the train and vanish into safer surroundings. She wondered if this evening could grow any worse—though she needn't have worried long, for the answer was upon her before her brother had an opportunity express his thoughts.

"HALE!"

Mr. Thornton did not make it far once he turned the corner of the station house. He was no further than half the length of the building before he could simply not walk any further. Leaning against the coarse red bricks he pulled at his cravat hoping to aid his breathing and threw his hat to the ground. It was as though he had just come to blows, as though all air had been forced from him—he had positive bodily pain! Running a hand through his hair while his other rested upon his knee in an attempt to keep himself upright, he did everything in his power to rid himself of the vision of Margaret—his Margaret—in the arms of another man. In the arms of some man who he was certain he had never laid eyes upon before—just as certain as he was that he would never forget him.

It was all wrong, it made no sense. How could she have been so warm and yielding in his arms only the day previous?

His chest tightened as he remembered her reaction to their proximity to her home. It was then that it began to come together. The past few days of awkward meetings, the refusals to visit the Hale's home, her concern when he stood at the door the evening before—this man had been staying with the Hale's. He had been in their home. Moreover, it seemed that both Margaret and her father attempted to keep Mr. Thornton away from their visitor. The revelation made him light-headed. He had spent every morsel of spare time reliving each word, each touch, each blush—all the while she was-

The thought was cut short. Something rang through the air, something that caused his hair to stand on end. He stood, listening for it—for her—once more.

"_Stop! Help, please!" _

Without an instant's hesitation, Mr. Thornton was on his feet, barreling toward her voice. When he turned the corner, his vision was occluded by a cloud of steam. The figures became clearer the closer that he came. Mr. Thornton was horrified to see an elbow fly, knocking Margaret to the ground. He could make out at least two men, one gentle, the other anything but—neither assisting the woman who lay screaming on the pavement. The rough man took a blow but recovered quickly and ran headlong into the gentleman, knocking him to the ground.

"What is the meaning of this?" Mr. Thornton's voice come out strong, full of authority and anger and rage. The train whistle sounded and supplied another heavy pocket of steam.

Margaret saw Mr. Thornton barreling toward them and could think of little else but getting Fred out. It was an instant after she noticed Mr. Thornton that Leonards saw him as well. Coward that he was, he ran. The man was out of sight nearly as quickly as he had entered into it.

The first thing that Mr. Thornton saw through the lofty white clouds that surrounded him was a man attempting to flee; he pursued him. Grabbing the tail of his shirt, the man lost his footing and skidded down the stairs. Margaret's voice cut through his consciousness. "Run, Fred. Go!" He turned to see that she was still on the ground and disregarding the ruffian—who had all but vanished from his mind once he saw Margaret attempting to pull herself up from the hardened ground. As Mr. Thornton lifted her, she laced her fingers behind his neck. He was lowering her to a nearby bench when four words shook him more than any that had ever before been uttered.

"I love you, Margaret." He turned to see the gentleman—the man who Mr. Thornton had _almost_ forgotten once he felt the gentle weight of Margaret pulling on his neck—he was standing in the last compartment of the train, his head out of the window.

The whistle sounded and the wheels cracked beginning to slowly move. Mr. Thornton glanced at Margaret once more before pulling from her in what, to her astonishment, seemed to be an attempt to board the slow-moving train. Margaret sprang to her feet and with all of the strength she could muster wrapped her arms tightly about him and cried "John, No!?"

The weight of her body pressed firmly against his, the sound of his name on her lips, the desperation in her eyes all stopped him for just long enough to allow the train to gain enough speed to make it difficult—if not impossible—for Mr. Thornton to mount it. Margaret stood, her arms had yet to loosen their grip, perhaps as an anchor in the flood of activity and worry that surrounded her; perhaps as a shield meant to keep one man from the other—in that moment Margaret could not decipher her motives. The loud shriek of the trains whistle sounded twice more, causing Margaret to flinch with each one; her heart calming with each turn of a wheel, each second of distance between her brother and the trouble that he had left on that platform. She watched as the train became smaller and smaller; though as she watched, she remained fully aware that she too was being watched. Margaret's eyes squinted as the train finally disappeared from both sight and sound leaving her on the platform surrounded by nothing but the labored breaths from both herself and Mr. Thornton. She finally managed to look up at him. His eyes were dark and hard and tore straight through her. The closest that she had seen to their likeness was at the exhibition—though those paled in comparison to what was before her. She attempted to sift through her convoluted thoughts and find a way to explain this to him. She had no idea what to tell him, what she _could_ tell him.

With frayed nerves, Mr. Thornton freed himself from Margaret's now-slackened arms and walked to the stairwell in which he saw one of the men escape. Once assured that he was gone he returned to Margaret's side.

"Are you alright?" Mr. Thornton's three words were delivered with an air detachment—though he could no sooner detach himself from Margaret at this moment than he could himself from his own heart.

Margaret nodded, overwhelmed. "Mr. Leonards? Was he-" The question died in the crisp air that surrounded them.

"You knew that man?" Mr. Thornton asked.

"Not well," Margaret did not know how to explain her association to him without involving Fred, without that, he nothing more than the Draper's son. "His name is George Leonards, his family is from Helstone." She sighed before weakly adding, "his father was the Draper."

"I am taking you home." Margaret took his arm and nodded her ascent, wondering what she would have done if Mr. Thornton had not come to her aid this evening.

"Who was that man?" Mr. Thornton finally asked once they were on the lighted path leading away from the station. Margaret was shocked at the boldness of his question.

"Which man?" Margaret answered with her eyes on her skirt.

Mr. Thornton stopped their steps and stared at Margaret in shock. Could she not know to which man he was referring—as if the image of a handsome gentleman professing his love to the woman that had stolen his own heart would not burn its image into Mr. Thornton's mind for all eternity?

"_Which man?_" He seethed. "Do you think me a fool, Margaret? I am speaking of the coward who you urged onto the train; the same one who left you to the mercy of God knows what. Fred! Who was he?" It was the harshest that he had ever spoken to her, perhaps the harshest she had ever been spoken to by anyone.

"Do not dare call him a coward!" Margaret bit back. Her brother had risked his life to give their mother her last wish—that was not cowardice.

"I see." Mr. Thornton said plainly. His words were no longer demanding, though they were lathered in anguish.

"What do you see?" Margaret could not bear the sound of his voice, nor the turn in this conversation. This was too large an issue to settle on so horrible a night—she needed time to think, to process what had transpired.

"It seems that I have been laboring under a misapprehension." Mr. Thornton spoke evenly and attempted to resume their walk when he was stayed by Margaret's fingers gripping tightly around his wrist.

"Nothing has changed between us, Mr. Thornton." She did not know what more she could say. She felt for him what she had the morning before—perhaps more.

"I can see that," Mr. Thornton said. He reoffered his arm and returned to their earlier silence, though there was nothing companionable nor comfortable in this outing.

Margaret was unwilling to allow this to be the final word and attempted to engage him in conversation. She nervously prattled on about the night sky with the cloud covered moon, the empty streets and the utilitarian architecture. Nothing drew a response. After what seemed to be hours of one sided conversation—though it could scarcely have been ten minutes—Margaret began to delve into more personal topics, each more desperate than the next.

_Miss Thornton and Miss Latimer were in town last week discussing wedding lace…_

_Mr. Bell Should be coming to town for the funeral…_

_The table had been filled to the brim with meats and cheeses…_

_My book, I think that I left it…_

_Father is sorely missing company…_

Through it all, Margaret was met with nothing but silence and a curt nod here or there. At the peak of her despondency, Margaret realized that they had stopped just before her door step. She attempted once more.

"Mr. Thornton, please." He looked at her for the first time in half of an hour. "I am so sorry." The words slipped from her mouth before she had a moment to process them.

Mr. Thornton's eyes darted away. He nodded his head and offered nothing more than, "Good night, Miss Hale," before turning and leaving without so much as a backward glance. Margaret could hardly stand for the pain that coursed through her, though she deftly and dutifully made her way into the house, stopping at her father's study only to tell him that Frederick was safely on his way to London and that she was beyond exhaustion, before excusing herself to her room. Once within, Margaret latched the door, slid down against it and wept.

Once he had fully left Crampton Crescent, Mr. Thornton leaned against a light post and removed his shaking hands from his gloves, rubbing them coarsely through his hair. He knew that his mother would be waiting for him at home and he was not ready to face her. Up to this point in his life, John Thornton had thought that he knew heartache, knew pain. Tonight, he found himself to be on intimate terms with both.

As he turned back toward Marlborough Mills, all of his thoughts swarmed around one daunting question: How had he lost his heart to one so heartless?


End file.
